O Captain, My Captain
by AngelKittyHeartHeart
Summary: -O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.- Brass' brush with death has unexpected consequences. New love is found, old love is rekindled. UPDATED Now with tentacles!
1. Grissass

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Grissass est. relationship, angst

**Disclaimer:** It doesn't belong to me. Summary and title from Walt Whitman's "Oh Captain, My Captain."

**A/N:** This is my very first fanfiction ever! I'm so excited. I just can't hide it! I wrote this for an assignment in English class. Teacher was… less than impressed by slash fic. Prude. Anyway, read and review! HeartHeart!

***

Grissom hated the smell of hospitals. They reeked of despair in a way that even the most rancid corpse couldn't quite manage. It was almost depressing how often he found himself here, if not in this very corridor, then some other in an equally bland hospital with the heavy weight of uncertainty in his chest.

This time was worse than any he could recall. The weight was heavier, the smell more sickening. Perhaps it was that he stood to lose more now than ever before. The decision to remove the bullet at the risk of Jim's life, was the most difficult he'd ever made. Now, he could only wait.

Ellie should walk through the doors any moment now, having agreed to meet him here, and he'd made it his personal duty to see that the girl made the trip to Jim's room without incident- whether she liked it or not.

A nurse's aide made her way past his chair and down the hall, her shoes squeaking newly on the polished floor. As ridiculous as it was, even that sound reminded him of times past, and brought with it a wave of emotion. It was like that time they accidentally ran over a duck on the way to the beach and Jim humoured him and returned to the scene of the crime on their way home to let him check it's level of decomp with a knowing smirk. If that wasn't love, Grissom didn't know what was.

Sighing, he glanced at his watch. Something should be happening by now. Where was she? Would she even show up? What if there were complications with the surgery? What if...

Just as he was about to lose his mind in the waiting room, Brass' daughter walked through the doors, complete with mini skirt and stiletto heels. A father's pride and joy. It was none of his business, really. Logically, he knew that. Yet every time he saw the girl, he couldn't help but resent the pain she'd caused Brass throughout the years.

At least she was here now. Maybe she finally realized what she was giving up every time she ignored his calls or went out of her way to humiliate him. No matter what her intentions were, Grissom knew how much it would mean to Jim that she came. He really was masochistic sometimes, but then, that was one of the things he liked best about Jim. Always willing to put himself on the line. Never afraid of a little pain in the pursuit of pleasure, in all areas of his life. It was endearing. Ellie, however, was not.

Grissom smiled despite his inner turmoil and resolved to deal with his resentment at a later, more appropriate time.

"He hasn't woken up yet," he offered, rising to meet her.

She nodded. Wordlessly he led her down the corridor, toward the surgery theatre where Catharine would be waiting for them, ever watchful and diligent.

He was about to initiate small talk when his heart stopped beating at the sounds coming from Brass' room. He broke into a run, stopping only when he reached the glass barrier where Catherine stood.

A cascade of sounds emitted from the surgery theatre, doctor's arguing, the heart monitor flat lining, nurses rushing around.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not now.

He couldn't breathe. Ellie's hand wrapped itself into his shirt desperately and she leaned into him, the weight of the situation too much to bear.

Grissom pressed one hand against the glass, tightly clutching the half-heart pendant around his neck with the other; kept hidden by day from prying eyes. His lover wore the other half, in a youthful salute to a passion neither of the men could escape.

He wouldn't be wearing it now, though, what with the hospital garb and wires surrounding him. Grissom only hoped he could convey the devotion he felt through the glass separating them as Jim lay still on the table.

If Jim died, it would be his fault. His decision that ended a father's life, a detective's life. His best friend's life. Everything. Gone. It just wasn't supposed to end like this.

Finally, astonishingly, the heart monitor flickered, paused, then resumed its pace, tracking the delicate heartbeat of Captain Brass once more.

A single tear of profound relief escaped its prison and traveled unabated down Grissom's cheek, neck, and finally settled on the collar of his shirt. It only took a moment for him to notice the same tears mirrored back at him through his lover's now open eyes as Jim weakly reached out to him. Grissom prayed he'd now have the chance to wipe those tears away.

* * *

To Be Continued

Plz review!!!


	2. Necromancy and Goat in the Supply Closet

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain- Chapter 2

**Author:** A.K.H.H

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Plot. Possibility of higher (M) rating for later chapters. Oh, and some (implied) violence. Slash throughout the story, too, obviously.

**Disclaimer:** CSI still doesn't belong to me. Lame!!!

**A/N: **I expect this story will turn out rather long, as I am having so much fun writing it!!! Remember to R&R, like it or hate it. Concrit, flames and encouragement gleefully accepted. To current reviewers: Thank you!

* * *

A morgue is a great place to hide a body.

A good place to hide anything, to tell the truth. Especially secret and not particularly legal science labs that have a bent toward medical experimentation.

The close proximity to the CSI labs is an added bonus, providing an unlimited supply of superglue and glass vials, handy for putting the bodies back together and as decorations, respectively.

It's not a mad scientist's lab without ambiance, and vials of green liquids (food colouring and water— chemistry isn't the primary focus here, and open containers of chemicals is a better idea on paper than in real life) look great beside the distiller—a type of chemistry this mad scientist _does_ experiment with.

Greg Sanders sips at his newest creation, Corpse Juice 3.2. It's fermented grape juice from Hodge's lunch (actually, his last fifteen lunches), but Corpse Juice labels on a few of the decanters add to the ambiance of the lab. Besides, the smell isn't dissimilar.

Despite his contemplative glare, the corpse in front of him remained disappointingly still.

His experimentation with voodoo is unproductive. He carefully scratches out a series of notes on his clipboard, and then flips the page to cross out voodoo as a method of resurrection. His printing wobbles, making the notes on the process of killing the goat more of an abstract drawing than anything else.

The goat let out a lot of blood for such a small thing. It made a complete mess of the pretty drawings the book had indicated were necessary. The pretty drawings that were swirling slowly, Greg noticed. It was really quite nauseating and confusing. They hadn't done anything at all during the ritual, so why would they react so badly afterwards?

Greg chugged the last of his vial as he contemplated this.

"Baaaaaa."

Greg slowly pours another vial, taking in the really very inexplicable noise. The goat was _dead. _Seriously, he'd checked, and he had CSI experience. Dead was one of those things you learn early on.

"Baaaaaaa."

And there it was again. He sniffs the vial and then moves on to the decanter. Only slightly rancid, not bad enough to be causing hallucinations… probably. Because he'd be damned if that goat wasn't getting up. It wobbles like one of those baby antelope on Discovery Channel, when they're getting up for the first time and are still covered in that weird baby shit. Amniotic fluids. Yeah.

The goat stumbles forward, blood still dripping from the gaping neck wound. It head butts Greg's knee then starts to eat his pants. Greg wonders hazily if goats are like chickens, able to live without their heads, before he realizes that the point is not ablis—aplice—applicable. The goat still has its head. It's just missing blood flow to the brain because Greg slit its throat.

In retrospect, that might have been a bit cruel, Greg suddenly realizes. No wonder the goat was trying to eat him. Greg morosely decides that he was an asshole. An asshole that nobody liked. He sobs drunkenly.

The goat tugs on his pants, unbalancing him. The inebriated man topples ever so slowly, dropping to his knees, then falls gently to his side. Sleep follows.

***

TBC!!!


	3. Superglue Could Fix That

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Grissom, Brass and the team face the threat of an unknown foe, while struggling with personal decisions that could have far reaching consequences.

**Warnings:** Plot twists, angst, superglue, Greg/OC UST

**Disclaimer:** It doesn't belong to me. How fortunate, for the characters. Muhaha.

**A/N:** Sara and Moochiecat: Thank you for your insight! In hindsight, it was a bit of a jump from chapter 1 to 2. I had 'Plot' as a warning, but I can see now that it was really serious enough to require its own safe word. Don't worry though, I promise this will all make perfect sense once the plot has been built up a bit more. I have it planned to fit together flawlessly, in a kind of butterfly effect. This story has taken on a life of its own, pretty soon the whole team will be involved and our heroes will be facing some serious peril and tough decisions, as the summary alludes to. I'll add to the summary to make it clearer, I just didn't want to give away too much. Thanks everyone, for reading and reviewing, or adding this to your alerts!! But it's best if you do both, you know! /HeartHeart/

***

The soft, moist noises of a domesticated even-toed ungulate's chewing woke Greg. It was not a fast or easy awakening. It was the kind of wakening that led dedicated men of the bottle to forswear their boozy mistress for a future of cold, hard, sobriety. The repetitive squeak of the chewing matter mixed discordantly with the sound of the wet saliva strands stretching and snapping to fall limply back into the goat's mouth. It sounded like Beelzebub's sweaty self-love. Larval stage.

Greg moaned in pain and clawed weakly at the floor. Surely there had to be a gun there. No god would truly expect him to live through this pain. His fingers trailed through a glutinous liquid filled with soft, rubbery masses. Greg's eyes opened, though both were gummed over with some type of mucus. The liquid was deep purple swirled with cloudy yellow. It was vomit. Probably his own, but he was having difficulty remembering this morning and therefore could not endorse that conclusion with any certainty. His body seized convulsively in reaction to the smell. Small spurts of puke sprayed from his mouth, adding a fresh layer to the smell and the vomit pool. The pool was definitely his.

The air conditioning roared to life, rattling Greg's collection of vials and superglue. His secret lair was directly adjacent to the utilities room. The noisy gurgles, creaks, and roars of the climate control and piping concealed screaming well. Greg shivered and felt goose bumps rise down his legs as chilled air blew over his exposed flesh. He blinked groggily. Exposed flesh? Greg looked down. His pants were gone and his boxers were being eaten. By a dead goat.

Greg reached for his clipboard and flipped to the last page. _Goat still moving. New drink may have hallucinogenic properties. _Greg levered himself up and eyeballed the goat. "I think I'll call you Victor."

Victor gurgled in what Greg took as agreement. A shred of his mixed polyester Wal-Mart boxers fell out of the hole in Victor's throat.

_Superglue could fix that,_ Greg thought to himself. Then he squeaked as the goat yanked hard on the remainders of his boxers, ripping them off. It had a mischievous glint in its cold, dead eyes. A lustful glint. Greg was suddenly stone cold sober. Or rather, a sudden jolt of adrenaline produced a sense of temporary sobriety. His blood alcohol level remained stable at 0.11 percent. He discretely covered his naughty bits from the prying eyes of Victor, rising into the traditional defensive posture of the nearly naked man. Greg staggered backwards, falling towards the jerry-rigged shower. He desperately needed to wake up some more; Wake up so he could forget all about this terrible, terrible dream.

***

TBC…


	4. Radioactive Condoms in a Hotel Room

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Grissom, Brass and the team face the threat of an unknown foe, while struggling with personal decisions that could have far reaching consequences.

**Warnings:** Case fic, X-over, mentions of auto-erotic asphyxiation

**Disclaimer:** It doesn't belong to me. How fortunate, for the characters. Muhaha.

**A/N: ** As promised, I'm delivering some plot progression that will hopefully help some of my more confused readers. In retrospect, the jump from hospital angst to voodoo zombie goats was a big one, but in my defense, I wrote the first chapter when I was watching House and the next two while I was watching Supernatural. It makes sense in the larger context, I swear! Seriously, even my teacher thought so, after she finished the entire thing. So yeah, Read and Review! Especially you, Moochiecat! I know you're out there! And you're the only one who has reviewed every chapter. You're much appreciated!

Nick snapped his gloves on with practiced ease, following Grissom into yet another motel-room-turned-crime-scene. These places were like magnets for illegal activities. They'd been to this particular motel so often in fact, that he was on a first name basis with all the cleaning staff, as well as Marcel, the manager, and his wife Lillian. Nice folks.

The scene that greeted them as they walked into room number six was not unlike any of the crime scenes Nick had worked before. Naked dead guy on the bed, what looked like a little bondage, and a hysterical maid giving her statement to some rookie cop just outside the door; Typical Tuesday.

What made today different was the fact that Grissom was working a case for the first time since Brass' surgery. Grissom hadn't left the hospital for more than an hour at a time. It took an entire day for Catherine to convince him he desperately needed a shower and nothing horrible would happen in his absence.

Brass' brush with death had hit the entire team pretty hard, but Grissom especially. The men were like brothers. Really close brothers. Now that Brass was on his way to a full recovery though, it looked like Grissom was finally winding down from all that worry.

Catherine even suggested he take some time off, that it was too soon, but work was almost soothing for Grissom and Nick hadn't been surprised to hear he turned the offer down— Disappointed in a concerned kind of way, sure, but not surprised. Of all people, Grissom really did need to get a little work-life balance going, or he was going to wear himself out.

David was already waiting for them by the bed, and Nick flicked on his camera to take some shots.

"Cause of death?" Grissom inquired in greeting, his voice decidedly tired.

"Looks like a suicide, but we'll know more once we get him back to the lab," David replied offhandedly, and took out a pair of scissors to carefully remove the grocery bag that was wrapped around the victim's head.

Nick looked at him sceptically. "David, man, you can't be serious. The guy is tied to a bed with a bag on his head. How is that suicide?"

"Pretty typical of autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong, actually. At least, I've seen a number of variations of it. Of course, he could have had a little help, so we can't rule anything out just yet." David cut off the last of the plastic skilfully, revealing the victim's open, startled brown eyes and sweat-matted dark hair. Time of death couldn't have been more than a few hours ago; lividity wasn't even set. "You know, autoerotic asphyxiation related deaths have been recorded as far back as the seventeen hundreds, probably even earlier. Not a bad way to go, if you think about it."

"Right." Nick didn't particularly want to think about it. Noticing some discarded sunflower seeds on the floor next to the door and the room's only garbage can, Nick diligently snapped some more pictures.

"Usually breathplay is done in a controlled environment," Grissom began, "with a partner to make sure this sort of thing _doesn't_ happen. Either our vic was new to the game, did it intentionally, or he had a partner that fled the scene."

Leaving Grissom and David to their emerging discussion on the matter, Nick walked over to a pile of clothes by the bathroom door, photographed, then carefully picked through them.

He bagged the first few items before coming to a pair of jeans. Out of one back pocket he extracted a wallet and with steady gloved hands carefully opened it. It offered no drivers licence for the guy, but did include fifty bucks, an adult video store membership card for one Mr. Robert Petrie, and a worn photograph of the deceased standing next to a pretty redhead.

He grimaced as he extracted a leather-encased badge from the front pocket. Damn. There was a special kind of camaraderie among law enforcement and it was always a blow to lose one of your own. This was going to get complicated fast.

"Hey Griss, the guy's a fed." Opening the badge to look closer, Nick read out the identity of the naked man on the bed four feet away from him, "Special Agent Fox Mulder." Nick dropped the badge into an evidence bag, while wondering for a moment who would name their kid 'Fox'. Poor bastard didn't even have a chance.

"The feds are going to want this one. I'll contact the Assistant Director," Grissom offered, already dialling his cell phone. Nick bagged and sealed the rest of the clothes while Grissom argued on the phone, presumably with a secretary, finally conceding to leave a message.

Hanging up agitatedly, he announced, "They probably won't get here until morning so let's get the body out of here and-" Grissom paused, looking down at his shoe curiously. Nick couldn't see past the bed, but Grissom bent to retrieve something with a pair of tweezers, only to recover a used condom, the business end of which was radiating with a sickening green luminescent glow.

"What is that?" David asked with a tone of both fascination and disgust.

"A love glove," Grissom replied with a shrug, still examining the peculiar find inquisitively.

Nick raised an eyebrow and observed, while moving to get a closer look, "Well, looks like this _love glove _has already been used. Apparently by somebody with either a bizarre new extraterrestrial STI or some horrible, horrible disease. Seriously, what is with that color? That can't be healthy."

A look of sheer horror crossed David's face. "You... you don't think it's contagious do you?" His terror mounted, "Should we call in HAZMAT?" His face paled dramatically, "What if it's airborne?!" Gasping and pawing at his shirt collar, he choked, "I-I can't breathe!"

"Calm down David," Grissom carefully handed the tweezers to Nick and gently but firmly took David by his shoulders and led him to the door. "We'll figure it out. Just get some air, okay?"

David nodded mutely.

"Huh," Nick muttered in contemplation, delicately bagging the evidence.

"This could put a second party at the scene," Grissom announced. "Looks like our suicide may be a homicide after all."

"Too bad we won't get to see this one through," Nick lamented, sincerely interested in finding out what the hell could go so wrong with a person's nether regions as to result in that green glow.

Grissom only nodded in agreement. "I've got to make some calls Nick, do you mind taking the evidence back to the lab? There should be someone there to pick it up by morning. Just give it to Catherine- she'll know what to do with it." The detachment in his voice was worrying, but Nick knew better than to press him if he wasn't in the mood to talk.

"Sure thing boss."

***

TBC


	5. Awkward Crossdressing & Goat Pheremones

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Grissom, Brass and the team face the threat of an unknown foe, while struggling with personal decisions that could have far reaching consequences.

**Warnings:** Humorously implied beast, Voodoo, short chapter, technically crossdressing,

**Disclaimer: **I stole someone else's toys and I'm going to do filthy, filthy things to them before I return them. With any luck, no one will ever notice. :D

**A/N: **I've been adjusting a few things in the summary and the genres to make them fit the story a bit better. Eventually, the ratings might go up too, but I'll hold off as long as I can. Anyway! Moochiecat and Sara! Thanks for being the only two people who have reviewed this story. Possibly the only two people who have read all five chapters now… The rest of you, your reviewing skillz are on par with William Hung's singing, Sex's dancing, and that fat kid with the lightsaber's inherent grace and beauty. Of course, you can always prove me wrong… with reviews. Now I'm going to shut this down before my notes are longer than the chapter.

Greg twisted his hands in the light jersey fabric of his new shirt. Luckily, he'd had an extra set of clothes lying around his secret lair. Unfortunately, they were Catherine's. He shifted awkwardly, adjusting himself. The jeans were rather tight.

Victor gurgled happily, nudging at Greg's tightly wrapped posterior with his nose. The goat had a strange and disturbing fascination with Greg, like it had died and come back something that wasn't really a goat. That lustful glint seemed almost human… Either that or Victor wanted to eat Greg's pants again.

"Stay quiet, okay?" Greg pleaded futilely with the newly repaired goat. (Greg had been right—superglue could fix that.)

Victor burbled in what Greg assumed was assent. He soon discovered that it was quite the opposite. Apparently resurrected zombie goats had mating calls.

Before he could even comprehend what was happening, a bizarre feeling of light-headedness threw him off balance and the room erupted in swirling colors.

Inexplicably, he could feel his inhibitions being lifted.

It was similar to his experience early this morning after shift. Of course, then he'd identified the Corpse Juice 3.2 as the obvious culprit for his instant inebriation, but as he stared back into Victor's peculiar eyes another, more disturbing, thought occurred to him.

Perhaps Victor possessed powers beyond an indiscriminate digestive system.

***

TBC


	6. Catherine and the Loveglove

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Catherine POV in this chapter.

**Warnings:** Humorously implied beast, Voodoo, partial X-Files cross-over, technically cross-dressing still, shoe death, language.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters I am writing about, or CSI would be a _very_ different and disturbing show...

**A/N: **Still adjusting things genre/summary-wise. I think the plot may be too complex for one genre/summary/pairing... More pairings to come, by the way, and disturbing content so... consider yourselves warned? Thanks for the reviews and keep them coming! Moochiecat, I am honoured to have been your first introduction to 'beast', lmao. The plot is really developing now (be afraid)! /heartheart/

***

"Hey Catherine?" Nick waved quietly from the doorway, beckoning her attention away from the remaining papers on her desk that she was trying _desperately_ to get through. "Grissom said to hand this over to you," he said, slightly raising the evidence box in his hands and she tried not to glare at him for the interruption. "Feds are taking the case," he added with an innocent shrug.

"Sure, thanks Nick, I'll pass it along," she muttered distractedly, finally giving up on the paper work with an exaggerated huff as Nick moved into her office to place the box on her desk. The paper work would have to wait until tomorrow. She was already running late. Grabbing her purse from a vacant chair, she stood and glanced into the box, only to notice something glowing. "What the hell is that?"

"Love glove."

"What?"

"Don't ask."

"Right. I've got to get going, Lindsey's got parent-teacher interviews. See you tomorrow Nick," she added as he left with a secretive smile.

She rolled her eyes, remembering when the job had been so amusing for her, before the stress of bureaucracy that accompanied her current position. She dug into her purse while pulling on her jacket, fingers checking for keys and wallet and quickly accounting for both.

Grabbing the box from the edge of her desk, she shifted it into a comfortable position in her arms as best she could and resolved to get it out of the way as fast as possible. Just as she turned to exit her office she unexpectedly encountered a broad chest blocking her path. Startled, she stumbled slightly backward with a gasp.

The man's entire presence was imposing, with a six foot stature and a massive build. His features were hard, light blonde hair cut close to his scalp in typical military fashion. Her eyes rose to his dark, impenetrable sunglasses that just screamed 'Federal Agent'.

"You scared me," she chastised accusingly, straightening up assertively.

Silently, he reached into his dark suit jacket and produced a badge, holding it up for her scrutiny. Sure enough, the guy was a fed. Figures, with that self-righteous attitude. Jerk.

"I am here to retrieve the case evidence relating to Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said expressionlessly, Russian accent thick in his speech.

She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, before letting her concern pass. She never got along with feds anyway. "Whatever," she muttered, passing the box to him.

Wordlessly, he accepted it and turned away, taking long strides out of the office and down the hallway.

"Hey!" she shouted at his back in afterthought, hanging slightly out of her doorway, "Don't forget to fill out the release papers!"

He ignored her completely. Asshole.

Turning too quickly, her heel caught on the threshold of the doorway and she reached out instinctively to catch herself, but not before registering a sickening _snap_.

"Ah, shit!" she cursed and Hodges looked up from his work across the hall briefly, before backing up slowly out of her line of sight in poorly concealed fear. She balanced herself on the door frame and pulled off her shoe, assessing the damage. The heel held on by a thread, completely useless.

This was all because she accidentally stole Sara's yogurt this morning; she knew it. Well, not so accidentally, actually, but that was beside the point. The universe was clearly punishing her, and she did _not_ have time for this whole 'karma' bullshit.

Pausing for a moment, she considered her options. A drive home for a new pair would take _way_ too much time, and Lindsey was already going to berate her over her lateness. With sudden hope, she remembered the pair of sneakers she kept in her locker, and tore off the broken heel of her once great Franco Sarto's, placing her foot gingerly back inside and limping off to the locker room.

She unlocked it with masterful speed, swinging the small metal door open, only to be horribly disappointed by what she found inside. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Damn it. Had she taken them home and forgotten them? For the life of her, she couldn't remember. She slammed the locker door. Leaning against it, she looked again at the broken-off heel in her hand. Could superglue fix that? Hell, it was worth a shot.

Stumbling back to her office, she rummaged around her desk drawers for a minute trying to locate a miracle. Nothing. She was about to go mad with frustration when she suddenly recalled Greg taking an entire box full of superglue down to the storage room.

For the time it would take, it was probably the most reasonable course of action. She could let it dry in the car and by the time she reached the school she could look like a normal, competent mother with two perfectly good shoes. It was foolproof.

Decked out in her jacket, purse on her shoulder and broken heel in her hand, she hobbled off to her destination, intent on outwitting the universe once and for all.

It was only minutes before the dimly illuminated hallway of the lower level guided her to salvation.

Salvation, however, was not as she expected. A faint greenish glow emitted from under the door. Strange. Maybe maintenance left the lights on. She tested the handle hopefully and found it unlocked. Finally, her luck had turned around! Unceremoniously, she flung open the door. What she found inside turned her thoughts abruptly away from superglue. She stood frozen in surprise and rapidly mounting terror, eyes wide with shock.

The walls were lined with glass vials half full of some strange green liquid, with candles perched behind them, producing the eerie glow she noted earlier. In the weakly lit room she could just make out _Greg_ and a bizarre looking creature that may once have been a goat.

Whatever the hell it was, it could _not_ be healthy with that smell, and if her eyes were correct Greg and the goat-thing were in the middle of something _unspeakable_.

Catherine remained shock still along with her unwitting company, who had obviously not anticipated her entrance. Jaw dropped in surprise; she looked down at the goat-thing, who turned to look at Greg, who was still staring at Catherine with humiliation painting his features. And—wait, were those her _clothes?!_ She tried to give voice to her horror, but a small, strangled gurgling sound came out instead.

Suddenly, she realized just how much she did _not_ want to have this conversation with her young colleague and resolved to do the only logical thing she could think of.

Very slowly, heel still in hand, she backed up into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Pausing only a moment in bewilderment, she decided a trip home for another pair of shoes wouldn't be such an inconvenience after all.

***

TBC...


	7. Grissass the Sequel: A Pregnant Pause

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Grissom, Brass and the team face the threat of an unknown foe, while struggling with personal decisions that could have far reaching consequences.

**Warnings:** Grissass, fluffy angst, slash,

**Disclaimer: **I don't make money from this. All I gain is the sweet satisfaction of manipulating the lives of fictional characters in porntastic orgies.

**A/N: **Okay! Moochiecat is still my all time favorite because she reviews! Fuck the rest of you! Except for that Sara character, she reviews too. Oh, and Moochiecat? I refuse to take responsibility for your therapy bills. Seriously. Don't look that shit up. And hey, back to the main plot line!

P.S. I don't hate people who review. Actually, I love them in a more or less platonic fashion. As for those of you who read then leave? You make me sad. You should be ashamed! I could be one of those little emo freaks! Your lack of reviews could make me cut myself and cry on webcam. You don't want that, do you?

P.P.S. …You know, when I first heard of emo kids, I thought they were saying emu kids. In hindsight, I confused a lot of people with the Australia jokes.

Sunlight cascaded carelessly through the slated blinds, pooling on the tile floor in haphazard shapes and patterns. Grissom watched, entranced and lost in the ebb and flow as the air conditioner shifted the blinds tirelessly back and forth with its light, perpetual breeze.

"What are you thinking about?" Jim's soft voice jolted him out of his self-consuming reverie.

Cautiously, Grissom raised his eyes and smiled slightly at the concerned blue ones looking back at him. "You're supposed to be asleep," Grissom chastised lightly, skilfully evading the question.

"You were thinking too loudly," Brass countered with a shrug, before turning on his side in the hospital bed to face him. Tone serious, he requested, "Tell me what's bothering you?"

An exaggerated sigh escaped Grissom's lips as he rose from his seat by the room's only window and moved toward his lover's bedside, searching for words while straightening Jim's sheets distractedly. Finally deciding that it wasn't fair to lay his worries at the feet of a sick man, he attempted to avoid the conversation with a pathetic mutter, "Noth—"

"And don't give me that line of bull," Jim interrupted sternly. "I've known you long enough to know when something is upsetting you. Are you still freaking out over the surgery?"

"I wish you wouldn't trivialise it like that. You almost _died_ Jim," he stressed, already feeling his throat tighten at the memory. His eyes sought out the swirling patterns of light on the floor once again, willing them to distract him from this torrent of emotions long enough that he could compose himself.

"And it would have been your fault, is that it? God," Brass lamented half-seriously, "if I had known giving you power of attorney would cause so much angst I would have named someone else." With a meaningful stare, he confided, "I did it because I trusted you to make the right decision Gil, and you did. I trust you with my life. And personally, I think it was a pretty damn good decision on my part. I'm fine— I'm alive." Jim continued with what was decidedly a leer,

"Very much alive might I add."

Had Grissom not been so upset with the man's apparent nonchalance over his near demise, he might have blushed at the images that look provoked. As it was, he could barely make eye contact. The overwhelming fear and the what-ifs flittered through his mind with such unbearable, cutting ferocity that he could barely breathe.

He bit his lip unconsciously and soon found a warm, solid hand atop his own in creamy contrast with stiff white sheets below. He could have lost that. He could have lost everything. Without raising his eyes, he admitted in a hushed whisper, "Jim… It scares me, the trust you have in me. I was just… so scared I lost you."

Shame immediately swelled in his chest at having so selfishly sought comfort and reassurance from a wounded man in a hospital bed. He should be stronger. Stronger for Jim. He had to be.

A tender finger caressed his jaw and brushed over his bottom lip, convincing him after a pregnant pause to lift his gaze. Grissom's breath caught at the sincerity and passion that met him.

"Sometimes it scares me too," Jim admitted softly, "But I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not going anywhere Gil. I'm right here," he promised, guiding Grissom's lips down to his own. Reluctantly, Grissom acknowledged his point; the powerful electricity of Jim's life affirming kiss and the steady drum of his still beating heart providing irrefutable evidence. Momentarily breaking contact, Brass whispered against Grissom's moist lips with an affectionate smile, "See?"


	8. Death to the Traitor!

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** A.K.H.H.

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Grissom, Brass and the team face the threat of an unknown foe, while struggling with personal decisions that could have far reaching consequences.

**Warnings:** Short chapter, Character death (not that you know who…)

**Disclaimer: **I may not own them, but I'm willing to role play it.

**A/N:** A chapter just for the dearest Moochiecat. I wasn't not posting due to lack of reviews, it's finals week at my school. I don't like studying, but I do like hanging out with my friends and calling it a study date so mummy dearest doesn't complain. It's short, but sweet. I've got another longer chapter that I'm posting tomorrow, so just hang in there. And since the majority of people don't seem to care what I say about reviews, here's an incentive. First person to review using only the phrase, _**The lonely dog eats ants by the brown barn at midnight, **_for this chapter can review again next chapter with a request. Any plot element, any time, it's added in. _Anything. _ I did zombie goats and cross-dressing inter-species sex. You cannot out do me.

Yes, this is a challenge.

The sun was the colour of blood and the land was darkened by the night's newborn shadows. The omnipresent desert dust was riding high on the wind, turning the air red in a bloody fog as the reddish light glimmered off the itsy bitsy microscopic particles of pale dirt. Truly, it was beautiful.

A pale man in dark robes watched, and considered the oddly prescient weather. A perfect time for a traitor to die. His penance had been wrought from his bloody flesh, a pint of blood at a time, and his weary body was dried out and up. He was as irritating as usual, bartering, ever bartering!

As if the betrayal of the cause could be forgiven. But that last weak energy had dried up hours ago, and only the thin, raspy breath of air between thin cracked lips betrayed his continued life.

The pale man smiled at the circling vultures. Such ominous things! Circling the faintest scent of decay, waiting for the traitor to die. Speaking of which… the pale man prodded the traitor. Nope, still alive.

Thin scarred lips twisted into a truly ugly pout. Waiting for people to die was quite dull. _Though…_ he thought idly, _I could… stage the scene. _His pout disappeared and a foul giggle leaked from his lips. The traitor trembled in _stark, raving fear! _ Or maybe he was just cold. The traitor was tricksy like that.

***

TBC


	9. GSR Spanking and the Table of Elements

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Each member of the team copes with the near loss of their Captain in unique ways...

**Warnings:** The rating of this story has been raised to M, for mature situations/language and adult content that may be disturbing to some readers. //Ominous Music// For example, this chapter alone happens to contain Spanking, daddy!issues, BDSM, H/C, GSR, Het, Bi, that aforementioned adult content, mistreatment of the periodic table of elements, and the consensual recreational use of handcuffs . So yeah. Consider yourselves warned. I don't see it getting any _less_ M rated in future chapters, by the way.

**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to TPTB and I am to blame for the unfortunate situations in which those characters have found themselves in this story.

A/N: Moochiecat, I adore you. And yes, you win! (Though, lovely readers, should any of you feel so inclined, feel free to still drop a request using _the secret code_ of the previous chapter!)

Oddly, your request happened to fit in fairly seamlessly with the plot. At this point readers may be thinking to themselves, "What plot?" but do not lose hope! The plot exists. Anyway, I sincerely hope you enjoy this Moochiecat, and that it is along the lines of what you were hoping for ("Personal Interaction" leaves a lot of doors open, which makes my brain do peculiar things).

This chapter, as per reader request, involves GSR and spank!kink. Enjoy!!! //heartheart//

***

Grissom sighed dejectedly, glancing up briefly from a file folder to share his distress with Brass. "She did it _again_, Jim. I'm starting to wonder if she's just making these rookie mistakes on purpose."

Brass placed his fly fishing magazine on the food tray sprawled across the hospital bed and seemed to give the matter great consideration. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to take an actual break from work—and no," Brass added before Grissom could argue, "bringing work with you to another environment is _not_ the same thing as taking a break from work."

Sheepishly, Grissom set the file folder on his lap. "Sorry," he offered sincerely.

That earned him an amused grin. Perhaps more amused than the situation warranted, as Jim was still a bit hopped-up on painkillers. "Don't be. I know how hard it is for you to relinquish control," he added with a wink. "Let me see the file."

Handing it over, Grissom leaned back in his chair, patiently awaiting insight.

"Hmm. I see what you mean. Sara should know better than to make such careless errors. Even I know _collagen_ is spelt with two l's."

"Do you think it's serious? She's never had this problem before. Spelling is one thing Jim, but we can't afford any technical mistakes in the lab, it could jeopardize entire cases. Maybe she's having a nervous breakdown?" The possibilities made him nervous. Something about hospitals had a tendency to lead his thoughts to histrionic places and with each passing moment he became more concerned by Sara's unexplained decline in performance. "What if she inhaled something toxic at a scene and it's caused neurological impairment? Maybe she—"

"Gil. Sara's fine. She or Catherine would have informed you if something was wrong. You know that." Glancing affectionately at him, Brass confided, "I know how much you care about her, I do too. But sometimes you have to remember that she needs a father figure in her life, not just a supervisor or a friend. Sara relies on you for stability. She obviously misses you. That's all."

He considered this skeptically. He'd never thought of Sara as the type to approach any situation indirectly, though if he was being honest with himself, he probably wouldn't notice if she did. Interpersonal subtlety tended to escape his notice. "Why not just tell me? Why let her _work_ suffer?"

"You're right; she chose an inappropriate strategy to get your attention. Maybe you should consider it an indication of the _type_ of attention she's looking for."

Oh. "I guess I have been away from the lab longer than usual."

"Exactly. She needs structure, Gil."

The last few days had been hard on everybody, but he hadn't considered its effect on Sara. She was always so reliable and strong, his star pupil, sometimes he forgot how deeply she felt things. She was probably scared and lonely, and he'd just left her to deal with it on her own. He'd have to make it up to her.

"Go. I'll be right here when you get back. Try smuggling me in some real food though, would you? These potatoes taste like gravel."

His lover's perceptiveness was eerie sometimes. Jim was right though, she needed structure. Discipline.

Grissom stood and nodded gratefully on his way out the door.

He was tempted to go see her at the lab, but knew privacy there would be limited. Best just to call her over. Not wanting to give away his intentions, he emailed Sara on his blackberry and headed home to prepare.

He didn't have to wait long before hearing Sara's brisk knock on the front door of his townhouse.

He let her wait a while before finally moving to open it.

She looked frazzled and out of breath, still dressed for work with her hair pulled back in twin braids. Undeniably appealing and oddly appropriate. But, Grissom reminded himself sternly, this was for her sake, not his.

"Grissom, what's wrong? Is Brass okay?"

He'd asked her to come immediately, a request that Sara always took seriously.

Grissom ignored her question and motioned her inside, through the small foyer and into the spacious, modestly decorated living room that lay just beyond it.

"Sit down Sara," his voice left no room for argument, but inevitably she would seek some.

Sitting obediently on one of the low burgundy sofas, brow furrowed in confusion, she started, "But why did you—"

"He's fine. That's not what this is about, and he isn't the one I'm currently concerned over." Grissom held up the file he'd brought with him to the hospital, one of many that had recently seen negligence on her part.

"Oh." She avoided eye contact guiltily and focused her attention on her hands, fidgeting in her lap. This was unacceptable and, in part, his own fault.

He fell easily into the familiar role, resolved to give her what she needed and perhaps attain the added benefit of keeping his lab firmly on track. "Just what exactly do you think you're doing Sara? Do you think this kind of performance is appropriate for a Level 3 CSI?" he demanded firmly.

"I..." she trailed off, too ashamed to defend her actions to him.

"Spell _collagen_."

"Excuse me?"

"Spell it."

"Uh," she hesitated, clearly perplexed by his request, "C-O-L-L-A-G-E-N."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Grissom, why are you—?"

The confusion hadn't quite left her, but neither had the underlying self blame or melancholy detachment, so he pressed on. "Did I give you permission to question me?"

She shook her head slowly, and as understanding finally dawned in her eyes she seemed almost tangibly relieved.

"Speak when you are spoken to."

"No, you didn't give me permission... _sir_. I'm sorry," she added with a deep breath, watching him closely now, eagerly.

"I don't think you are. I think you need to be punished for your bad behaviour. Do you suppose that's fair Sara? Is that what you deserve?"

"Yes sir," she confessed shyly, unable to look at him as she said it.

He smiled at her timidity, and the blush that spread fiercely across her cheeks. Grissom knelt in front of her, extracting a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and holding them out for her to see. "I want you to put these on."

Her eyes darkened and she complied without hesitation, swiftly snapping the cuffs onto her wrists as her hands remained in her lap, submitting herself completely to him and demonstrating the totality of her trust.

She glanced up, always seeking reassurance that she was being a good girl and that her actions pleased him. "Stand up," was all he offered in response.

She stood shakily, her breathing already increased in anticipation. From his position in front of her he gripped her hips firmly in both his hands to steady her before popping open the button of her pants and tugging them roughly down her legs, leaving the rest of her clothing in place.

Rising from his position, he trailed his hands up her calves and thighs before taking the place she vacated on the couch and pulling her down across his lap as he did so. The couch was just low enough to the ground that she didn't have to balance too unsteadily on his knees, but high enough that she still had to rest all of her weight on him.

Sara's eyes were tightly closed, her small body taut in expectation. Her braids hung down awkwardly with her bound arms. He pushed her blue cotton panties down to her thighs, revealing the smooth pale skin the material concealed.

She needed forgiveness for her perceived slights, those that he knew about and those she may never tell him. Whatever demons she had been labouring under in his absence were soon to be exorcised.

It was better absolution than any church could offer her, though the parallel was still interesting to ponder. Either way she was asking father for forgiveness.

He ran a hand across her back soothingly, trying to expel some of her obvious nervousness.

"Sara, what is the atomic weight of Palladium?"

_Slap._ She jerked forward in his lap, caught off guard by the suddenness as he'd expected. Grissom caressed her reddening skin as he waited for her answer.

"106.40?"

_Slap_. A stifled moan escaped her as his palm connected with her flesh with increased force, even as she cringed at the pain of it.

"Correct. Barium?"

_Slap_. Grissom spanked her harder this time, enough to elicit a gasp while she bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

"137.33."

_Slap_. His hand was beginning to sting from the blows, but she wasn't yet where he needed her to be.

"Zirconium?"

_Slap_. The force was nearly bruising and she choked back a sob as her eyes welled up. The weight of her on his lap and her vulnerable position were getting difficult to ignore, especially as he watched her rub her thighs together intermittently in frustration and arousal.

"...91.22?" she whispered, struggling to catch her breath.

_Slap_. Tears started to slide delicately down her cheeks as she trembled.

"Strontium?"

_Slap_. She cried out, unable to keep hold of her thin and frayed splinter of control any longer. Grissom slid a hand down between her thighs in encouragement, adding a bit more pleasure to the pain.

"Ah. Strontium..." Sara moaned as he increased the pressure. "I... I don't..." she stumbled, clenching her eyes shut.

She was losing her coherency, struggling to keep herself together. But she was still holding back.

Grissom, however, was not.

_Slap_. Her expression was torn between sensations and she started to sob.

"Yes you do Sara, you know this. Tell me."

_Slap_. Her skin was crimson and aching, would likely be bruised afterwards, but through the pain and gentle stimulation he could feel her getting closer to the edge even as she struggled to answer him.

"Nuh, 78—no... I mean, 87.61..." she sobbed brokenly as the words left her mouth.

He slapped her hard one last time and watched her come undone in a storm of orgasmic bliss as her tears flowed freely and sobs wracked her body violently.

Grissom pulled her panties up gently before lifting her fully onto his lap and stroked her back as she clung tightly to him, releasing the last of her anguish until the tension drained out of her body.

"That's a good girl," he murmured reassuringly. "Are you sorry now?" He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she apologised into his shirt, her breathing calmer now. "I won't ever neglect my... my work again. I promise."

"Show me, sweetheart. Show me you're sorry."

She smiled sweetly and bit her bottom lip as she slid off his lap and onto the floor in front of him. Sara was a very talented girl, with a very talented mouth. She _was_ his star pupil, after all.

Her hands worked the clasp of his pants expertly and she wasted no time taking him into her clever mouth and leading him the short distance to climax.

When he looked at her now he could no longer see the shaken little girl that had rushed to his doorstep. Sara's calm and confidence had returned, and beneath her tearstained face he could see that her inner demons had been pushed back down for the time being.

Now that she was free, Grissom pulled the handcuff keys from his shirt pocket and released her.

Her swollen, pouty lips quirked in a half-smile and she raised one eyebrow coyly. "Do you forgive me now?"

***


	10. The Unspeakable Goat

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Each member of the team copes with the near loss of their Captain in unique ways...

**Warnings:** Nothing too bad this chapter, but the next one is uber extra special, I swear.

**Disclaimer:** I stole the characters to feed my crack addiction.

**A/N: **Moochiecat, I write a super special chapter just for you and you ignore it? Did Sara/Grissom spanking disappoint you? I tried! Really, I did! Did I do it wrong?

And for everyone else, the new code is **Twelve blueberries in the bucket makes the greatest dissertation on human nature. **And the request open now is any cross over, any at all. Though if you want it to be more than a single chapter thing, it needs to be from Death Note, Criminal Minds, X-Men, Forgotten Realms, Naruto, Star Trek 2009, CSI NY or Miami, House, Batman, Twilight, Weiss Kreuz, Harry Potter, Ranma ½, or Final Fantasy 7.

Please review. Please. I'll do anything.

***

Catherine came in early Friday before shift to attend to some remaining paper work- half hers, and half Grissom's. Her thoughtful attempt at alleviating some of her boss' stress was not going as well as planned, and her to-do pile was looking progressively endless.

At least Greg was off last night. Things were definitely looking up. It was one less thing she had to fit into her already busy schedule and she definitely didn't want to hand it over to Grissom to deal with. Poor guy had enough on his plate.

Regrettably, she knew she'd have to deal with the kid herself eventually, but how could she even approach a topic like that? She was caught firmly between the abject horror of having witnessed such a scene, and denial at it ever having happened. Denial, as always, was preferable, but she'd never been too good at full-on self-deception.

Interestingly, there was no policy against his actions on which to base a dismissal, though Catherine didn't really want to fire him anyway. Instead, she resolutely convinced herself that it was truly none of her business. Still, the department had instituted a no-fraternization policy, and unless the goat was on payroll, there was no anti-sex-with-a-bizarre-looking-goat-thing rule to be heard of. It just seemed grossly unfair.

To add insult to injury, her brain disobediently flashed images through her head of perverted goat-sex every few minutes and she cringed in displeasure. Really, did no one understand the concept of locking a door anymore? Was it so much to ask? And, even ignoring the presence of a goat, what the hell was he doing in a storage closet in the morgue? And why was he wearing her clothes? Seriously, what the fuck?

It was all so surreal—even for her, and she had been getting that feeling increasingly often lately. As far as Catherine was concerned, reality had suddenly tilted and the entire world was clearly out to get her.

Just looking at the mounds of paper work in front of her filled her with despair, but it _was_ a useful distraction. She groaned in misery and uncapped a red pen before being surprised by an unexpected knock.

It was Greg. Damn it. She should really learn to close that door. And maybe even barricade it with a filing unit. This was getting ridiculous.

"Uh, Catherine... About yesterday... I, um, just wanted to explain that—" The boy shifted nervously, refusing to look up at her.

"No," she decided aloud, shaking her head.

"No?"

"Let me make this simple Greg," she began in her best don't-fuck-with-me-kid voice. "We are not having this conversation. Not now, not ever. Whatever may or may not have occurred in that storage closet, or the perverse motives behind it, are none of my business. This is Vegas after all, if you can't do weird shit here then where can you? Just do me a favour and take it off company grounds. Pets are against regulations. Oh, and stay out of my locker."

"About that, did you—"

"Keep them," she cringed. They would have to be burned anyway.

"Ah, okay. I'll see you later then..."

And that was that. Pleased, she brushed her hands together briskly in satisfaction and crossed his name off her to-do list with the red pen as he walked off.

She commended herself smugly for her superior uncomfortable-situation-averting abilities and decided that things really were turning around for her after all.

At the abrupt beep of her pager, her hopes were serendipitously confirmed.

***

TBC


	11. A Body Bag With a Bow on Top

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Each member of the team copes with the near loss of their Captain in unique ways...

**Warnings:** Cursing and most likely OOC behaviour. And a mini crossover. And inappropriate humour in what is doubtless a very tragic scene for everyone involved. And character death.

**Disclaimer:** I did it because I love them. They need the discipline or they'll never grow into productive members of society.

**A/N: **In a last ditch effort to regain Moochiecat's favour I grant the world a double feature show. Enjoy and try to leave having learned something. Like the fact that octopuses have three hearts, blue blood, and are probably the smartest of all invertebrates. And lobsters can live to be over a hundred and also have blue blood. So, next time you eat lobster, consider that it might actually be older than you.

***

"Dear sweet mother of God."

"Jesus fuck," Sara agreed.

Catherine let out a long, slow breath. This… this was something else. "Do you know what this means, Sara?" She turned to the younger woman, eyes glinting with too much knowledge, too much overtime, and way, way too much information. Her voice hushed, she repeated herself, "Do you know what this _means_?"

"Four day weekend?" Sara asked, gazing upon the best thing that had ever happened to her. It was spread eagle, laid open to the elements, debased, perverted, and deeply disgusting, but, despite its flaws, Sara found it remarkably beautiful.

The highway patrol man who found the body approached, "Are you girls going to be okay?" His enormously thick moustache bristled in concern. "I heard that he's one of yours."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself," Catherine smiled at the trooper through tears of joy. "We at the lab," she snuffled wetly, "we take care of our own."

The women watched the giant man walk away, returning to securing the perimeter against vultures. In a moment of pure impulse, they turned to each other and embraced, letting their tears soak the shoulders of their very official CSI jackets. "I'm so happy," Sara sobbed. "So, so happy!" her voice rose into an undignified squeak on the last syllable.

Catherine squeezed Sara tighter and then pushed away. "We need to process the scene," she said, her voice cracking.

Sara nodded, and skipped (or rather, walked with a certain bounce in her step) to her kit. A sudden thought struck her, and she spun, her mahogany hair gleaming in the desert sun. "Catherine, how are we going to tell Grissom?"

Catherine's lips twitched. "A body bag with a bow on top?"

Sara chuckled. "A surprise party? Grissom's been kind of down recently. Maybe he could do with a pick me up. And we could celebrate Brass' recovery too, if he can make it." She paused and collected a fibre sample from the body. "Do you think we could get the department to fund the party? We could call it a wake."

"Dr. Kane would probably sign off on it as being good for our psychological health, if we invited him," Catherine mused, visions of a party paid for by her employer dancing through her head. "We could call…" Greg's name dried up in her throat, "…Warric."

Sara looked up in confusion. "Why Warric? No offence to him, but Greg is the better choice for planning a party for Grissom and Brass. Warric would get strippers, you know he would."

Catherine shook her head at the strange out-of-towner woman. "It's a Vegas thing." She collected a biological sample, probably semen, though it did have a strange tint to it. Greenish. It pulled from the face of the victim like tacky glue. The biological was scattered across the face, neck, and wig. Pretty. Though the wig was ruined, semen was a bitch and a half to get out of synthetic hair.

"Maybe," Sara looked at Catherine doubtfully. "But still, why not Greg? Grissom isn't really the stripper type." She snickered, "Not unless it's some type of obscure beetle."

Catherine laughed uneasily. Her mind shied away from the thought of Greg. "You know what? Let's figure it out ourselves. I can talk with Dr. Kane."

"Okay. We could start the party in the morgue. Call Brass and Grissom in to observe. Hell, call in the entire lab. I think everyone deserves to celebrate this." Sara pulled a lump of fur from the collar of the robe and put it into a teensy paper envelope.

"Hey, when's David coming anyway?" Catherine asked, looking up from fingerprinting the broomstick. So far, dozens of prints had been found, leading to a rather disgusting picture of the crime.

"There's another crime scene on the other side of Vegas. Something about one dead hooker and another live one who's claiming alien abduction and intergalactic impregnation. Exciting stuff." Sara tugged on the wig. It refused to move. She frowned in confusion, "Hey, Catherine?"

The two women peered down at the wig. "This _is_ him, right?" Sara asked, tugging again on the wig.

"Definitely, he's one weasel-faced rat bastard who I'll never forget," Catherine affirmed. "Without massive amounts of alcohol, that is." She grinned at Sara who laughed out loud.

"Yeah. I figured. So, the wig was… glued on?" Sara asked, seeking confirmation from the older CSI.

"Must be. Who knows what the bastard was into?" Catherine shook her head. "It's weird though. I didn't even notice that he was missing. And this didn't happen overnight or even over the last week. Hell, he smells like he hasn't bathed in the last month."

"I saw him about two weeks ago," Sara said. "I think I did, anyway." She smiled, "I wondered why I'd felt so relaxed for the last week or so."

"Just think!" Catherine laughed cheerfully, "Never again will you have to justify refills for your kit as a departmental expense!"

"No more lectures about improper fraternization with your co-workers!" Sara exclaimed, then looked at Catherine and blushed.

Catherine smiled at the younger woman, "I think he was just jealous because we never invited him to the after-shift breakfast."

"I'm sure that's been a problem for most of his life," Sara quipped. A warm rush of happiness coursed through her veins at the thought of never having to deal with the irritating scumbag again.

The crackling of gravel in the dry desert heralded the arrival of the coroner's van. The two women stood and stretched before ambling over to the vehicle. The sun was peering angrily over the horizon and their shift was nearly over. They just needed to hand over the body and bag up the evidence and they could both go home.

"Hey David, how did the alien case go?" Catherine called out, shading her eyes against the evilly bright sun.

"Oddly," David responded, pulling the body cart from the back of the van. "What do we have here?" he asked.

"Why don't you go and see?" Sara said, grinning slyly. "It's pretty special." She leaned up against the CSI van, her kit at her feet. She ignored the look David gave her.

"Okay," David gulped, approaching the corpse with trepidation. When Las Vegas CSI's said the scene was special, it was frequently not just special, but fucked up beyond all recognition. Last time Sara told him a scene was special he'd had to mop up the corpses. He gasped in sudden recognition; "Is that?" his voice shook.

"Yes indeed," Catherine put the last of the collected evidence in the CSI van.

"It's Ecklie!" the women cheered in unison.

"With a broom up his ass," Sara continued.

"In a Severus Snape costume," Catherine added cheerfully.

"And a papier-mâché thing that is _supposed _to be the dark mark." Sara squinted at the lumpy mass in the back of the van. "I think," she added uncertainly.

"I have no idea what's going on," David said, "but I'm not even a little bit upset." He wondered at his complete apathy over the death of someone he knew. Then he remembered what a complete asshole Ecklie had been during his performance review. _I don't deserve a raise, Ecklie? I'm not valuable to the lab, Ecklie? Well guess what dead man? You'll get a practical demonstration of my talents now! _David marvelled at the maniacal laughter that threaded through his mind like a neurological poison. Very odd sensation, that.

"Oh!" Catherine exclaimed. "Can you keep him on ice until tonight's shift? We want to surprise Grissom at the autopsy."

"It would be my pleasure," David said. He hesitated, "Am I right in assuming that this autopsy will be well attended?"

"Well, he is one of ours," Sara said, fighting to keep a straight face. "Obviously, everyone at the lab will want in on this."

The three looked at each other before cracking up. "Of course," Catherine said, giggling girlishly. "I'll call Nick and Warric, let them know. Maybe suggest that they bring in a cake, or party hats, or something like that. Sara, you handle Greg and the lab techs."

***

TBC


	12. Agent Mulder and the Fancy Hat

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Each member of the team copes with the near loss of their Captain in unique ways...

**Warnings:** X-Files mini cross over, minor language, blatant abuse of glitter and tinfoil.

**Disclaimer:** Still, not my characters. And at this point the lawsuit would cover so many shows/characters/moral violations that it's just not worth anybody's time to sue. Promise.

**A/N: **The plot thickens!! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, added this story to their alerts, and continues to read. Hope you all enjoy this chapter. My request offer still stands. Also, I recently learned of a genre I'd not previously known existed, called 'crack', in reference to the drug I presume, but who knows? I am starting to think it may be an accurate genre for this story, as no others have really fit... What do you think, is this 'crack!fic'? Or is it just romantic comedy? Can it even be classified, really?

* **

Nick knelt in the hallway, tying an errant shoelace with a wide smile. God, this had to be… well, the greatest surprise he'd had in months, at least. Who knew Ecklie had even been missing? Yeah, he hadn't seen him around lately, not that he was even looking, but two weeks? Wow. He definitely hadn't seen that coming. And a _broomstick_ to top it all off! The irony was just too bloody perfect. Of course, he supposed they'd have to catch the guys who pulled this stunt off eventually.

But, Nick considered, straightening, that could wait until after the celebration. Priorities are vital.

Intent on spreading the good news to anyone and everyone it had yet to reach, Nick went off in search of Greg. Neither Nick nor Warric had seen him yet today, so the pair split up to cover more ground, each eager to be the first to share the revelation.

Rounding the corner toward the front desk, a clearly frustrated and angry voice reached his ears. Intrigued, he stopped to listen.

"Goddamnit, you promised you wouldn't wear that anymore!" the voice berated. "I can't believe you snuck it into the car without me noticing. How many times do we have to have this conversation? You're embarrassing me," the voice whispered fiercely. Nick peaked around the corner to see a petite redhead in a sleet black suit attacking what appeared to be her male colleague, trying to dismantle some kind of shiny hat from his head. "Just—Just take it—Stop that, just give it to me!"

"I love it when you talk dirty—Ah! Hey, that hurts!" Her colleague recoiled in pain when she pinched him hard on the arm. "Scully, it's hardly even noticeable; I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it."

"Wha-You've got to be kidding me, you don't see how a _normal_ person would find it embarrassing to wear that? It's aluminum foil for christssake!" Nick took a second look at the man's hat. Damn—it was full on tinfoil. No wonder she was pissed. It vaguely resembled one of those pointed anti-alien-mind-reading things from old movies. Only with some extra sparkles glued on; presumably for aesthetic appeal. Nick couldn't imagine glitter having any other redeeming qualities.

"Ah, but I never did claim to be normal. You should really be used to it by now. Oh, and hey, I made one for you too! See Scul—Ow!" Nick could no longer hold back the laughter as the man started to reach into his jacket only to be whacked firmly upside the head. Fearing his amusement would reveal his eavesdropping, Nick decided to do the gentlemanly thing and introduce himself to the lab's bizarre new guests and see what they wanted.

"Just let me do the talking. Go… wait in the car or something, I don't care."

"Aw, and miss getting my arm bruised some more? You're adorable when you look at me like _I'm_ the crazy one and get all mad. At least _one_ of us cares about privacy," he added, tapping his hat pointedly.

"Can I help you folks?" Nick walked up to the pair and they instantly quieted, the woman replacing her disgruntled glare with a welcoming smile as he approached.

Holding out her hand, she promptly, and with a clear air of professionalism, introduced herself while holding out her federal badge, "Special Agent Scully, FBI. This is… ah, my partner Special Agent Mulder. We need to speak wi—"

"Holy shit!" Nick discourteously interrupted when the partner in question turned around to shake his hand. Shocked, Nick could only stare wide-eyed at the apparently not-so-dead man in front of him. Nervously withdrawing his hand after a moment, the agent straightened his tinfoil hat self-consciously. "Man, I…" Nick was at a loss for words. "I could have sworn you were… You must have a twin or something."

"Yeah. Something like that," Agent Mulder offered with a chuckle.

"I take it you know why we're here then, ah…" Agent Scully paused.

"Stokes. Nick Stokes ma'am," Nick quickly supplied. "And yeah. I can imagine." Recovering suddenly, Nick remembered, "Actually, one of your people already picked up the evidence last night. Are you here to look at the body then?"

"What do you mean it was picked up already?" Scully demanded.

"Told you so," Mulder muttered under his breath.

Rolling her eyes, she sighed, "Fine, yes, the body. Please take us to it."

"Sure thing ma'am," Nick declared, promptly forgetting his mission to find Greg and now trying to mentally wade through the unbelievable weirdness of the situation.

Not only was he pretty damn certain that he'd just seen this man one hundred percent, fully deceased—complete with bondage, nudity and a garbage bag around his head—only last night, but now he shows up wearing a tinfoil hat.

Nick paused, stopping suddenly in his tracks, and turned to the man suspiciously. 'Agent Mulder' hadn't shown any identification… Though the badge on the vic seemed pretty real…Was he really going to take this guy's word for it? He _was_ wearing a shiny tinfoil hat. With glitter. Hell, he probably made it himself. That didn't exactly bode well for the man's credibility. "Sir, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

"Right, well—"

"Agent Mulder recently had his federal badge compromised. Mr. Stokes—"

"Please, just Nick."

"Nick. We don't have time for protocol and pleasantries, if the body is left too long or the temperature drops too low, we'll… lose valuable evidence."

Never one to gamble with the evidence, Nick considered her request. Taking a reluctant leap of faith, Nick conceded, "Well, okay. But you'll have to go through security on the way out."

Without another word, he led them down to the morgue. Mandy and Hodges stepped out of their labs as the three of them passed, staring spellbound at the dead man in the tinfoil hat. Of course, they both had donned shiny pink party hats themselves, so the agent really only stood out as a crazy person in a sea full of crazy people. Nonetheless, it was a decidedly odd sight.

"Hey Doc, you in?" Nick greeted, about to jerk open the door to the morgue.

"Nick! Don't come in!" demanded Doc Robbins' voice from deep inside the room. "I'm not done prepping the body yet, I want it to be a surprise—authentic, just like it was found."

Nick paused obediently, keen anticipation rising in his chest at the mention of _the_ _body_ and joyous thoughts of the celebratory autopsy to come. "Actually Doc, I've got some feds here to check out the 419 from last night."

"Oh." A pause. Movement. A metal door slamming shut. "Well, come in then," he offered finally, pulling the door open himself.

Doc Robbins looked positively ecstatic for someone who had just pulled a double shift and was currently splattered with a variety of human remains. He wiped something off his glasses while motioning them inside. Hopefully not brain matter this time, but you could never be sure down here.

The two agents exchanged an indiscernible glance and moved into the room. "Has an autopsy been preformed yet?" Agent Scully questioned.

"Uh, no, actually. We've been pretty backed up, but I've got it on ice," Doc Robbins reassured them, walking over to one of the body drawers, checking its label and then smiling at the agents. "Right here."

Agent Scully looked weary, "Do you mind if I…"

"Be my guest."

Gingerly, she pulled open the drawer, peeking inside. "Damn it!" she cursed loudly, catching Nick off guard and jolting him out of his happy thoughts. "We're too late."

Apparently satisfied that nothing was going to crawl out, she slid it open all the way, revealing a gooey luminescent substance plastered firmly to the bottom of the metal drawer, where parts looked as though they had been burned through.

Nick immediately flashed back to the disturbing condom found at the scene and resolved to bring it up at a more appropriate time. Somehow, he just didn't find himself comfortable with discussing the green condom, bondage, erotic-asphyxiation or obvious nudity of the deceased when the guy's mirror image was standing right next to him. Clearly, the agent's twin was into some kinky shit and suffering from some horrible flesh eating venereal disease. Awkward. Maybe Catherine would do it.

Doc Robbins leaned over the drawer, intrigued, and proceeded to poke at the substance with the end of a pencil, muttering with curiosity.

"It's okay," Agent Mulder finally spoke up, "it's only toxic during decomposition." His reassurances were needless; Doc Robbins would not be deterred from poking at something with a pencil no matter what the health hazard.

Turning to the preoccupied man, Agent Scully placed a business card on the edge of the metal drawer. Silently nodding to her partner, they headed back out the door.

Glancing over one shoulder, she added, "We'll be in touch."

***

TBC!!!


	13. Death in a Parking Garage

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Character death, angst, vehicular manslaughter.

**Disclaimer:** Roses are Red, Violets are blue, I don't own them and neither do you.

**A/N: **New super secret code! **I love everything you do, marry me and sex me up three times daily. Cellar Door. **Review with that code and I shall honour any request you make. No, Srsly, I will. Just ask Moochiecat! She's responsible for the spanking scene. And also responsible for the posting of every chapter past third. So hey, send a review my way. Please. Dear God, please.

***

"Greg! Hey Greg—"

CRUNCH!

"Oh shit," Greg whispered, looking in his rear-view mirror in horror. Warric was stuck between his SUV and the brick wall. As Greg watched, Warric choked up a flood of blood onto the back windshield. "Oh _fuck_." He switched into drive and went forward a few feet then killed the engine and darted out the door.

Warric slumped against the wall, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Greg approached warily, "Ah… Warric? You okay?" he paused, totally freaked out. "I didn't see you there…?"

Warric did not respond.

Greg knelt beside the bloody man and checked carefully for a pulse. Nothing. "Double fuck," he cursed. He looked up and checked for the security cameras. Luckily, the only one facing this direction was the broken one. Greg opened the back hatch on his SUV and climbed in, hauling Warric's corpse with him. "Oh god, I'm so sorry man," he whispered. He settled the body next to the jugs of Corpse juice and his aquarium. Greg had been in the middle of moving his secret lab to his apartment when Warric had startled him. Catherine's impromptu visit yesterday had shown him that his secret lab wasn't actually that secret. _Thank god she'd been too distracted to notice the corpse on the table, _Greg thought. He looked down at Warric in abject misery. He _liked _Warric. Why couldn't it have been Ecklie, or someone equally annoying?

Greg wiped away a tear and climbed to the front seat. There was only one thing to do now— Take the corpse and use it for medical experiments.

***

A dry breath rasped from parched lips. Someone gasped, and then dashed from the room.

***

TBC


	14. Improper Conduct in the Office

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Chapter:** 14

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Brass' brush with death has unexpected consequences for everyone on the team. B/G, GSR, S/C, G/W, W/N, G/OC. _Reader discretion is advised_.

**Warnings:** Femmeslash (Cath/Sara), mild language, inappropriate office conduct as well as reference to beast and slash.

**Disclaimer:** CSI and all recognizable characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended, for entertainment purposes only, no profit is being made.

**A/N:** Thanks everyone for the favs, reviews, reading and adding this story to your alerts! It says a lot about your psychological state, actually, that you're still reading this. You must see some crazy shit in Rorschach's ink blots. Perhaps I've not done a sufficient job of disturbing you? I'll increase my efforts for the upcoming chapters, until then I love to hear what you think of the story! Concrit, flames, love: all of it is appreciated! //heartheart//

***

She was still buzzing from today's discovery when Sara turned up at her office door.

Blissful grin lingering on her lips, Catherine nodded for her to come in, pleased at the opportunity to further enjoy the other woman's company on such a special occasion. Sara sauntered in wordlessly and shut the door behind her, draping herself gingerly on the edge of Catherine's desk with a coy smile, kicking her legs back and forth gleefully.

Sara glanced over her shoulder at the door, licked her lips, then, apparently overtaken by a sudden whim, jumped off the desk and straddled Catherine's chair.

Shocked by her sudden boldness, Catherine was still, but Sara didn't waste a moment before lavishing kittenish licks along Catherine's jaw line. Surprised, she couldn't help but giggle before trying half-heartedly to dislodge the woman on her lap. "Sara, mmm, we—we can't do this here…"

"Why?" Sara challenged, running her hands eagerly over Catherine's pliant body and pausing briefly to linger over a love bite from a previous occasion. "It's not like Ecklie's going to walk in on us again," she added, practically mewling in covetousness. She had a point…but better not to risk another write up for indecent behaviour on the clock.

Regretfully, she nudged Sara off her lap with an apologetic peck on the cheek.

"You know," Sara started gravely, "what with the seriousness of the situation and all, we might be able to clock out early and have a little _party_ before the party," Sara suggested teasingly, giving Catherine a slow, hungry perusal and batting her lashes seductively.

"Based on everyone's good mood today, they probably wouldn't even notice we were gone…" Catherine enthusiastically conceded, returning the woman's enticing smile.

"Come get me when you're ready to leave?"

"Give me an hour?"

"Sounds good. Oh, hey, have you seen Warric? Nick was looking for him. Apparently they had a bet going on who'd find Greg first to spread the sunshine, but now he can't reach either of them. He also said to give you this," she added, delicately placing an FBI business card on her desk.

"I'll give Greg a call at his house," Catherine offered. "They're probably together right now anyway."

Sara nodded and winked playfully on her way out the door.

Still smiling to herself, Catherine grabbed the phone, dialled and propped her feet up on her desk.

By the second ring someone picked up. "Greg?" Catherine received no answer. "Hello?" Nothing. She was about to hang up and redial when she heard a noise on the other end. Movement. Something crashing to the ground. It sounded like a struggle. Hit by a sudden rush of adrenaline, Catherine called into the phone again, receiving no reply. What if someone had broken in and attacked him? Suddenly, Catherine considered the possibility that Ecklie's murder had been related to his position at the lab and not just the fact that he was an annoying piece of shit.

She jumped up and was about to pull her cell out and rush the police over to investigate when she heard a moan. She dropped back into her seat, listening carefully and trying to determine the nature of the noise.

Was—was that a goat in the background? Oh dear god, not again.

"Fuck, Warric," Greg's voice trembled, clear and distinct across the phone line. More moans.

Catherine blanched, feeling nausea and shock take immediate hold of her body. Greg must have somehow tricked Warric into joining his sick goat cult! She slammed the receiver down and retracted her hand as if it was toxic.

She leaned back in her chair, staring wide-eyed at the offending phone and waiting for comprehension to follow. It did not.

Something very strange was going on.

***


	15. The Goat Ate Your Clothes

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Voodoo, goat, Lazarus re-enactment, slash, nec, Greg/Warric

**Disclaimer:** I've done terrible things to these poor, defenceless characters. It doesn't matter though, because they're imaginary! And I don't own them.

**A/N: ** I challenge you! To review! You scurvy dogs. Or I kill you. However, if you do review, I shall update again by the 12th. Only one person needs to review. I don't give a shit what you say; I just want the admittedly somewhat meaningless validation of knowing that someone liked or hated this enough tell me. The next chapter is the aftermath of this one. It's weird in all the right places, which is the only thing I can promise when it comes to my writing.

***

Warric coughed. His lungs felt like deflated balloons. He stretched out, head lolling. The carpet grated against his dry skin, irritating it. He cracked open his eyes through thick gummy mucus. He was in a small, dark room, dimly lit by aquarium lights. His eyes wouldn't focus, but he was somehow certain that someone was in the room with him. Someone buried deep in the shadows of the corners, lurking.

"Warric?"

Warric jumped in shock. "Greg?" He coughed again. "What the hell, man?" He turned on his side to see the younger scientist better, but pulled up short at a sudden realization. "Greg..." Warric hesitated. "Man, where are my clothes?" he asked helplessly.

"Gone?" Greg responded, chuckling uncomfortably. "Heh…"

"Yeah, I noticed." Warric sat up and shuffled into a more modest and, incidentally, more protected position. "What did you do with them?"

_Don't say you were disposing of the evidence, don't say you were disposing of the evidence. _"You looked uncomfortable in all those clothes." Greg took a moment to be completely appalled at what his mind had come up with as an excuse for undressing his male co-worker. Then he tried a smarmy grin. It was still better than telling Warric that he'd been disposing of the evidence.

Warric froze. His eyes couldn't focus well enough to see Greg's smarmy grin, but the human body has a remarkable ability to detect perversion. "Well, ah…" he scrambled for something to say. His mind was still hazy. "Thank you for your consideration, but I'm sure I'd be much more comfortable fully clothed." Warric waited a few moments, but Greg said nothing. "So I'd like my clothes back."

"Yeah, about that…" Greg shuffled uncomfortably. "My goat ate them."

"Your goat?" Warric asked, confused.

"Baaaa-haaaaaa bullbulle glug."

Warric cried out in surprise at the unexpected noise. The voice of the devil himself was not as ominous or terrifying as the voice of the goat. Which is why Warric believed his girlish scream shouldn't reflect badly upon his masculinity. Extenuating circumstances.

Greg, on the other hand, took several minutes to recover from his hysterical laughter. Several long minutes where he tried to come up with an excuse that explained why Warric was naked in Greg's apartment with no memory of how he had arrived there.

"Come on man, stop laughing and tell me what's going on," Warric exclaimed, pulling himself up the wall into a standing position. The goat was too close to eye level when he was sitting. "Last thing I remember is coming to tell you that Ecklie's dead."

Greg choked on spit and started coughing. "Seriously?" he wheezed. He lunged forward to hug the nude CSI in what was arguably a remarkably homoerotic move. "Dear god, I'm so happy!" he squeaked out, "Tell me it was painful!"

Warric moaned loudly, at Greg's first touch, his flesh had begun to burn with red-hot fiery lust. He rose to the occasion, though, even if his speech was distinctly breathy, "I think so." His hands suddenly grew the mind of Dr. Livingstone and each decided to explore the wilderness that was Greg's undiscovered body.

Greg half-shouted in surprise, shocked at the bold exploration of Warric's adventurous hands. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the goat; eyes alight with the creepily intense glare of an animal watching you get some. "Warric, what the hell?"

Warric responded by grabbing Greg's ass and grinding into him. Greg's jeans were downright painful against Warric's tender exposed flesh, but the red hot hormonal surge refused to allow Warric a moment's peace.

Greg tried desperately to resist, but his flesh was willing and his spirit was very, very weak when Warric made that noise, or did that thing, or, frankly, looked all hot with those devastatingly sexy green eyes and that hot, hot body. That hot, hot body that Greg wanted rubbed all over him, under him, in him, on him, whatever, so long as his lust was sated. Distantly he heard his home phone ring. He struck out at it, knocking it off the hook to end the irritating noise.

Victor bleated in complaint, as the phone whacked him in the head on its way down. The goat had moved closer in their moments of distraction.

"Fuck, Warric." Greg gasped, pulling away from the other man's mouth to aid in the effort to remove his shirt in order to attain greater skin contact surface area. Goddamn, Warric could kiss. It was like he had not one but ten tongues, each attacking independently.

***


	16. Fiery Passionate Love Touching

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** The awkward aftermath, Country music.

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine, but they followed me home. Can I keep them?

**A/N: **Right! It's been two chapters since the last review. You know I have over sixty pages written for this, right? The lack of reviews only incites me to make shorter and more chapters out of the desperate hope that someone, somewhere will acknowledge my efforts. The next chapter is a Catherine/Sara femslash scene that I'm really very proud of. If you review now, not only will I post that scene, I'll also post the next chapter/scene at the same time. That's two for the price of one, how could you refuse? Come on, please? Validate my writing! Review!

The neighbour was playing country music. A singer wailed about broken hearts and lost dogs that ate the cowboy boots that belonged to the farmhand who was screwing the singer's third wife who made a damn fine chilli that she poisoned which was eaten by the singer's father. The father died and the guitar twanged poignantly.

Warric twitched, shaking off a fly. The sun leaked through the cracks of black-out blinds, mixing with the eerie blue aquarium lights. It was closing in on twelve, 2 am for the graveyard shift.

Greg looked away. Neither had spoken in the last hour. After their burst of fiery passionate love touching the two had parted, letting their sweat slick bodies cool under the artificial breeze of re-circulated air. The love juices were tacky and bordering on crusty. Greg would have moved, but he was afraid that motion would incite conversations that he had no desire to have. Questions such as, "Why are you in women's underwear?" or, "Is that Catherine's?" might make an appearance. And the answers of, it's laundry day, the goat was hungry, or a chemical waste spill in the closet might not convince a level three CSI, despite it's veracity. It certainly hadn't convinced the landlady.

He can see the light glint over Warric's eyes. Too dim to show their green tinge, but bright enough to reflect. Greg wishes that Warric would just fall asleep so that he could go have his damn shower in peace. His stomach itches, but he can't move. Movement would break the stasis. For now he can pretend that the entire thing had been normal, just another case of unresolved sexual tension boiling over. It happened a few times a month with any and all the unattached members of the lab. Tensions run high in Vegas. Though the interludes were usually terribly embarrassing for both parties after the surging hormones wore off. Fuck, he hadn't been able to look Hodges or Ecklie in the eye for weeks. But Warric… this had been different. Perhaps it was the goat, but this simply wasn't _right_. Something strange had happened today. Beyond the bringing Warric back from the dead using a bastardized voodoo ritual and some better living through chemistry.

_Time to bite the bullet, _he thought, eyes flickering to the much too still Warric. _Maybe he won't say anything, _Greg thought optimistically. He shifted to his feet and grabbed the scattered clothes he'd been wearing. _So far, so good. _He walked quickly to the door, avoiding eye contact. He could hear Warric moving, but if he didn't look then he didn't have to say anything.

***

TBC


	17. Stupid Men and Their Lesbian Fantasies

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** femslash, phone sex, masturbation, implied cross-dressing.

**Disclaimer:** When I said read this to your children, I was joking. And this is a work of fiction based on a T.V. show that I am not affiliated with in any way. I suspect that the owners would be deeply appalled by my work. I know my beta is.

**A/N: **CEH has validated my existence. Therefore my pleading for reviews is slightly less desperate. Still there, but less desperate. And, as promised, two scenes in a single chapter!

"Hey, Grissom!" Catherine sang cheerfully into the phone. "Yeah, I know what time it is." She rolled her eyes at Sara. "Yeah, I just needed to tell you that there was a new case that came in this morning. Sara and I took it. We were hoping you could come in and give us some of your expertise." Catherine pulled Sara's hands off her thighs and waved her finger at the younger CSI.

"What? Of course we could handle it!" Catherine growled into the phone. "But since we'd need to consult with an expert in entomology anyway, we figured we may as well call you." Catherine stifled a gasp as Sara lapped at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Oh… no, I'm fiiiiiiiine." Her voice cracked a little bit. "Just meet us at the morgue at around eleven thirty, okay?"

Sara crawled into Catherine's lap, energetically molesting the former stripper. She leaned in and hissed into Catherine's ear. "He buying it?"

"The bug is dead, it shouldn't be bothered by refrigeration," Catherine lied absently, busy watching Sara remove her shirt. "Yeah, it's just this huge worm thing." A devilish idea struck her. "It burrowed right up the guy's ass and there's still something like a meter of it hanging out. It's the darndest thing."

Sara convulsed in laughter, hiding her face against Catherine's shoulder while her hands were busily opening Catherine's shirt.

"What? No!" Catherine said suddenly, startling Sara. She leaned back and studied the blonde in confusion. _Nope, not telling me to stop, _Sara decided happily, unclasping the front of Catherine's bra.

"Dammit, Grissom, it'll be there later tonight." Catherine paused. "I don't care if it's a Greater Mexican Night Crawler, I'm at home and you don't get access to my dead guy unless I'm there." She drew in a shuddering breath as Sara lapped at her exposed nipples. "Ummmm… no, I'm not upset."

Sara slid down Catherine's body to settle at her feet. Catherine's belt hissed softly against her belt loops as Sara pulled it off, maintaining eye contact with Catherine. Sara smiled wickedly at the slightly dazed expression on Catherine's face. "What was that Grissom? I can't hear you. Some kind of feedback or something." Catherine said hurriedly, "So I'll see you at the morgue tonight, right?"

Sara peeled off Catherine's jeans, realizing delightedly that Catherine was wearing thigh highs. Sara _loved _Catherine's thigh highs. And Catherine's thongs, and Catherine's high heels, and Catherine's lacy things, and Catherine's short skirts and Catherine naked, covered in whipped cream, and tied to Sara's bed. Sara purred happily, tracing the outer edge of Catherine's thong with her tongue.

Catherine let out a breathy moan and then froze. "Sara? Why would Sara be here?" She twitched under Sara's questing mouth. "Ummmmmmmm…" she tried to turn her moan into something more innocent. "Oh my God!" She shouted inadvertently into the phone. "You think we have a…" her voice trailed off into a muffled whimper. "Thing?" she gasped, grabbing Sara by the hair and directing the little minx.

"Stupid meh-MEN and their lesbian fantasies!" Catherine did her best to scoff while holding Sara _right FUCKING there. _ "I'm just enjoying the sunshine." She shifted, her long legs coming up to rest on Sara's shoulders, silk stocking caressing her neck. "It's fantastic!" she cheered, her voice rising abruptly on the last syllable. "Um… oh _yeah_! That's _good _Grissom,"

Sara licked her fingers and sent them up to play with Catherine's nipples.

"That's just _great._ I'll see you there, ohhhhhh-KAY?!" Catherine dropped the phone into its cradle, where it rested askew, still on.

***

Greg leaned against the tiled wall of the shower. He had eleven hours until he needed to be on shift. Eleven hours to get Warric out of the apartment, sleep, eat, and maybe organize some of the stuff he'd brought home from his secret lab. The octopus tank needed to be topped off, he really needed to clean up the chalk in the living room, and work on that article he was writing for the Forensics Annual Gun Safety magazine. Accidentally killing Warric had really messed with his schedule.

He frowned angrily as he whacked off. He should be in front of his computer right now, but that darned Warric had upset his delicately balanced masturbation schedule. Sure he had brought sex, but the bond between a man and his hand was sacred. He came in an almost perfunctory fashion, thoughts miles away.

_Victor and Warric… what is this? Success? _ He wondered, directing the shower head to wash his jizz down the drain. Outside he heard the clicking of goat hooves on tile. It didn't feel like success.

He sighed and turned off the water. It wasn't Warric's fault, but this was ridiculously awkward. He had very little idea on how to handle the situation. He almost never had anyone over. Working the night shift limits social opportunities outside of coworkers. And Greg had never invited anyone from work to his apartment. All of the CSIs had chosen a career path that required them to pry and they all loved their job. Perhaps too much.

There had been one get together at Grissom's in recent memory. After four drinks Catherine had snuck into Grissom's bedroom to use AV lighting on the sheets, Sara had started checking the laundry hamper, Warric had wandered off to the kitchen to hunt through the freezer, Grissom had harvested fingerprint moulds from everyone there, and Nick had spend thirty minutes in the bathroom doing god knows what. Greg had spent his time on the couch, trying to avoid the field of vision of Catherine's purse, which he was fairly certain had a camera imbedded in the latch. He may have checked the couch with his pocket light before sitting on it and taken prints from the coffee table when Grissom's back was turned, but it was Grissom's own damn fault.

The man was seeing someone, everyone knew that. But no one knew _who_. Greg's results had only brought back people at the party and Brass. And everyone knew that Brass and Grissom spent a lot of time together.

But all that set aside, the issue remained thorny. What did you do with the naked man who you'd accidentally killed, brought back to life, and had creepy sex with?

Greg realized quite suddenly that he had absolutely no clean clothes. And he hadn't brought anything into the bathroom but women's underwear and cum-stained blue jeans. Fuck.

***

TBC

You know, the review story button is directly under this line of text. I have anonymous reviews enabled. I can't make this any easier for you. No, really, I can't. My profanity filter is off, too! Want to praise me using naughty words? That's weird, but okay!


	18. The Hunt for Pants and Dignity

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Awkwardness.

**Disclaimer:** I am sorry for inflicting my psychological issues on you. They're like AIDS, they transfer in such a fun way but then they never, ever, go away. And eventually you die a horrible death.

**A/N: **Yays! I got reviews for the last chapter! Maybe I was onto something with the double scene posts. What do you think? Let me know with a review! Or a PM, but, you know, I like reviews better. And I have to wonder what happened to Moochiecat. Like seriously, where art thou? Was the advent of more zombie goat sex too much for you? If so, you're going to hate chapter 41 .

***

Warric gingerly pulled himself to his feet. His ribs were hella sore for some reason. Greg had broken the uncomfortable silence and left. Now all Warric needed was clothes and maybe a wet-nap or two and he could get out of Greg's apartment.

The shower started. Warric left the room he'd woken up in. It opened into the living room. He edged around several cardboard boxes and snuck toward the open door on the other side of the living room. The lights were on in the bedroom revealing a messily unmade bed coated in dirty band tee-shirts. The floor was piled high in books on voodoo, the supernatural, and organic chemistry. Warric lifted a shirt and sniffed it before recoiling from the scent. _It looks like clothes are gonna be difficult._ He prodded at the mess on the floor, hoping for a pair of sweat pants because he wasn't ever going to fit into Greg's jeans, not even on a bet.

Warric's eyesight telescoped in on a fragment of unidentified material lodged in a wear mark on Greg's bedpost. He shook his head and tried to ignore the side effect of being a Crime Scene Investigator. Unfortunately, years of being paid to find people's secrets won out. He gently pried the fragment from the post, ignoring the uneasy feeling he got from not using latex gloves. Black, flexible, and of a texture that implied leather. Warric's eyebrow shot up. _Kinky. _

The shower turned off.

Warric dropped the trace evidence and hunted through Greg's piles of laundry. _Jeans, tee-shirt, jeans, boxers, sweatshirt, jeans, tee-shirt… fuck! Look natural! _ The door to the bathroom opened.

Greg tucked the edges of his towel a little tighter. Warric was just standing there, completely relaxed, leaning against the wall, arms cross over his chest. Greg envied Warric's free-hanging nature.

"So… do you have any clothes I can borrow?" Warric asked, shifting uneasily under the weight of Greg's gaze.

"No," Greg said, "It's laundry day."

"Then can I borrow a sheet or something?" he paused, obviously confused. "Where is my car?"

"Yeah, you can borrow a sheet." Greg went to his linen closet, half full of sheets, half full of superglue.

Warric waited. "And my car?" he prompted Greg, when no response was forthcoming.

"Probably still at the lab," Greg said casually, tossing Warric a rose patterned sheet.

"How did I get here?" Warric wrapped the sheet over himself, ignoring the stains he caused. "I can't remember."

"I can give you a ride to your place," Greg dodged the question. "You'll have to give me directions though."

"Greg, seriously—" Warric saw the eyes of the goat, sulphuric yellow coins broken by a single black bar. It was lurking in the shadows of the room. It had been watching him. He stared, transfixed by the eerie beast like a deer caught in the hunter's spotlights. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, Victor?" Greg gestured at the goat. "I found him wandering in the alley out back. He was so cute that I couldn't resist keeping him as a pet." He smiled innocently. "Don't tell anyone, okay? I'm not allowed to have pets in my apartment."

"Uh, yeah, deal." Warric shuddered and turned away from the goat. He coughed awkwardly, trying to dismiss the tickling sensation that Victor's gaze had brought out in his throat. "I'll take that ride."

"Cool."

***


	19. Don't Rip the Stitches! Grissass returns

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

**Warnings:** Phone sex (yes, again. I've got kinks, just like everyone else *cough* Moochiecat *cough*) and the end of Greg/Warric freak fest. Finally, god, that was hard to finish.

**Disclaimer:** This ain't mine, y'hear? No, like, srsly, the owners of these characters are rich and I am sooooooo not. Especially not since I bought this happy pretty new computer! I named him Joshikins! :D

**A/N: **No reviews… so fuck you. And your cousins, you sister-licking non-reviewers. Anyone who reviews, of course, is not a sister-licking cousin fucker. They are obviously well-mannered young men and women of status. So WHO are YOU? And hey, double scene! Because, yeah, these were really short.

***

Brass watched Grissom quietly. The other man seemed oddly intent on the phone. He hadn't spoken in awhile; Catherine must be bending his ear over something or another. Grissom smiled pleasantly and his eyes shifted up to Brass', his finger pressing down on speaker phone.

"Oh fuck, do that again." A distant whisper rose from the phone. Brass' eyebrow rose in surprise.

"She didn't hang up fully," Grissom said innocently, spreading his hands as if to say, _what can you do? _ He cocked his head, listening and said, "I think that's Sara."

Brass considered the purring growl and was forced to concur. "That does sound like her," he murmured, watching Grissom walk across the living room to settle next to him on the sofa. "What was it that they wanted?"

"Catherine wanted me to believe she was alone," Grissom chuckled. "And she wanted me to consult on a bug they found in one of their new cases."

"Anything interesting?" Brass asked out of politeness, his attention inextricably draw to the soft moans drifting from the speaker phone. He caught his breath sharply. "Gil…!" he whispered uneasily as the other man undid the belt of his bathrobe. "The stitches…" he trailed off uncertainly, mind wandering away from words. "Doctor said?" he offered up dumbly, hoping Grissom could interpret the meaning of the words that he had been thinking before Gil had done that thing with his tongue.

"It's okay," Gil reassured Jim, licking his lips. "I won't let you move," he said, his words halfway between threat and comfort. "Promise."

***

"Thanks man," Warric said, sliding out of Greg's SUV for the second time that day. This time he was alive, so, bonus points. "You know, you should clean this thing. Smells like blood."

"What, that?" Greg smiled. "Victor likes raw meat," he covered smoothly, "Bit of an odd duck, that one." He chuckled awkwardly, ignoring Warric's look of horror. "Anyway, you can keep the sheet. See you tonight?"

"Yeah… yeah, there's a party in the morgue. For the autopsy. You're supposed to bring something to eat or drink." Warric said, backing away slowly.

"Great! I'll see you then?" Greg put the SUV into gear.

Warric nodded slowly and went into his apartment; grateful that part of his life was over and done with.

***

TBC

Right under this is the, "I am not a sister-licker," button. Be sure to click it before you leave, because I am _watching _you.


	20. Sharing Hats in the Morgue

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Brass' brush with death has unexpected consequences for everyone on the team.

**Warnings: **Strangely? Nothing too serious in this chapter. Other than the general plot, of course.

**Disclaimer:** Alas... *is deeply depressed at lack of ownership*

**A/N:** This has taken a month to update... more than a month. So, apologies to any hard-core readers out there. More to come in time, of course.

***

A small wisp of excitement blossomed in Catherine's stomach as she and Sara made their way down to the entrance of the morgue.

Most of the expected guests had shown up already and were busy chatting, speculating, setting out the punch and placing bets.

The Morgue was decidedly too small for such a well attended venture, but on such short notice it was the best they could do. Besides, under the circumstances a little personal space violation among colleagues was nothing compared to the delight and shared camaraderie that had erupted in the office at the news of Ecklie's death.

Some of the Day Shift was still trailing in, but Detective Curtis and Dr. Kane were already present and actually a bit tipsy even though the party hadn't officially begun. A good sign, to be sure.

Night Shift, of course, was already accounted for; In part, due to the fact that they were technically on duty, but mostly because they were superior in every way to Day Shift, who tended toward both jealousy and awe at the Night Shift's improbable good looks and punctuality.

The guests of honour were expected to arrive any minute, and Catherine could barely contain herself.

Looking around the morgue, she was touched by all the effort, decorations and good will that had gone into the party's development. The body lay carefully covered—and disconcertingly lumpy—beneath a thick white sheet, ready for the big reveal.

Crime scene photos were superglued together and decorated the walls like streamers, giving the guests a taste of what was to come without revealing too much. The Snape costume and wig, after all, concealed the body quite well, while still adding nicely to the ambiance of the room. Presentation was everything, as Doc Robbins had insisted.

Glancing at her watch, Catherine waved to said coroner and headed to the door, ready to usher Gil and Jim inside when they arrived.

Closing the door behind her, the noise of the occupants was quickly muffled and she looked up and down the empty corridor in anticipation.

Much to her surprise, the next two individuals to enter were not Grissom and Brass, but rather two people in suits that she did not know. They looked out of place and a bit lost. "Catherine Willows, Crime Lab. Can I help you find something?" she greeted.

"Special Agent Scully, this is Special Agent Mulder. We spoke on the phone."

"Oh right!" she remembered suddenly, recognizing their voices and finally placing faces to the names. Pleasant people. Strange, but pleasant.

"I know it's quite late, but we wanted to talk with your coroner, Doctor Robbins. Is he in?" Agent Scully asked politely.

"Actually, he is in the middle of a very important autopsy party right now. But you're welcome to wait."

"An autopsy... party? Ah, we wouldn't want to intrude..."

"Don't be silly, the more the merrier!" Catherine insisted, gleefully spreading the love.

"Well, we didn't bring anything, it would be rude to—"

"Oh! Sure we did," Agent Mulder suddenly piped up, smiling and nudging his partner in the arm. She glared at him, obviously unimpressed by his outburst. "I've got lots of extra hats," he continued happily, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a pile of neatly folded tinfoil hats coated in various colours of glitter, some with little star shaped stickers on them. "I carry extra because mine keep mysteriously disappearing," he added seriously. His partner rolled her eyes and shuffled her feet sheepishly.

"Well, we can always use some more party hats! Head on inside," Catherine encouraged, ushering them through the door and out of the hallway seconds before Grissom rounded the corner with a slightly limpy but nonetheless much healthier looking Captain Brass in tow.

She smiled in greeting, and pulled each man into a gentle hug when they reached her.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

Brass nodded. "Much." He glanced at Grissom with a sly smile.

Grissom seemed a little pale. Concerned, Catherine asked, "How about you? You don't look so good."

"It's nothing," he waved her off. "Just an upset stomach." He smiled reassuringly and she patted him on the arm.

"Doc Robbins is waiting inside," she hinted, motioning unsubtly at the door.

Grissom grasped the door handle and pushed it open slowly. "So where's this worm you promi—"

"Surprise!" the crowd chorused joyfully, immediately parting like the red sea around the autopsy table.

Doc Robbins brusquely whipped the sheet off of the corpse-centerpiece with a theatrical flair, revealing the soon to be autopsied body that all had gathered to see.

"Wha—is that... Ecklie?" Grissom's face lit up with realization like a jubilant child and he turned quickly to Brass, whose mouth was open wide in shock and elation.

***


	21. Party in the Morgue

**Title:** O Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Summary:** "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead." Brass' brush with death has unexpected consequences for everyone on the team.

**Warnings: **Graphic Autopsy (oh yeah, I went there)

**Disclaimer:** Alas... *is still deeply depressed at lack of ownership*

**A/N:** Where is the love, dear readers?

* * *

"As you can see," Doc Robbins began, circling the body slowly as the crowd watched in fascination, hanging off his every word, "lividity is set along the shins and tops of the feet, forearms, chest and back of the hands, as well as across the right cheek extending from jaw to temple—" he indicated the areas in question with the familiar wave of a pencil, "suggesting that the body was either posed immediately post mortem or, most likely, that the victim died in this position."

The position in question had been recreated for the occasion, due to Doc Robbins insistence on authenticity.

Ecklie lay quite compliantly face down with his naked buttocks hoisted high in the air, right cheek pressed against the table and arms stretched out awkwardly by his sides.

The position did not leave much to the imagination, nor would it have offered much mobility during Ecklie's last moments alive, as the slightly constipated expression frozen on the corpse's face attested to.

The only things missing from the display were the costume, wig and papier-mâché 'dark mark', all of which had to be relinquished to the evidence locker, as protocol dictated.

Of course, the stick, which had previously been lodged in the victim's anal cavity, was currently set off to the side in a long plastic evidence bag for safe keeping. It was difficult enough to remove the first time without compromising any evidence in order to fit him into the body drawer, and Doc Robbins would be damned if he was going to go through _that_ all over again.

Despite his renowned abilities to delve wrist deep into rotting and decomposing corpses with a delighted smile, this one had caught him off guard. It _oozed_, and as far as he was concerned, _that_ kind of oozing counted as the ninth circle of Coroner's Hell. Never. Again. Hence, the crowd would have to do without that visual.

Doc Robbins continued, "David's preliminary exam at the scene revealed a high level of potassium in the victim's ocular fluid, so—since the eyes were closed—our good friend here had been dead at least twenty four hours before he was found. Liver temp will obviously be unreliable considering the location of the body and its extended exposure to the elements, but factoring in the speedy yet predictable decomp facilitated by Vegas heat as well as the minimal degree of rigor and presence of maggots, my estimate is that the TOD occurred approximately 36 hours prior to discovery of the body."

One of the Day Shift staff groaned quietly across the room and handed Warric a twenty dollar bill begrudgingly.

"The cause of death however, is a bit more difficult to determine in this case. We'll only know for sure once we've cut him open... but I'm sure you are all _dying_ to know the extent of his external injuries," he baited slyly, receiving a cheer from his captive audience.

Even the FBI agents seemed to be enjoying themselves, and Brass was on his third cup of punch looking quite pleased with the events of the night so far.

Doc Robbins moved to the other end of the table, poking at the victim's inner thigh with his pencil.

"This here is one of the more obvious injuries. The bullet passed through at an angle, nicking the femoral artery and lodging in the femur before shattering." He motioned to an x-ray on the far wall. "It took David _hours_ to pick out all the bullet fragments for ballistics, didn't it David?" Doc Robbins questioned pointedly, quite unimpressed.

"Ah, yes sir. Messy work," David muttered embarrassedly.

"The wound is definitely peri-mortem, as are most of the exterior bruises and fractures. For example, this broken wrist already started healing—its advancement indicating that it occurred about 7-8 days prior to death. The bruising, obviously, is quite extensive, some older than others signifying prolonged and repeated abuse, though none appear to predate his disappearance. Especially interesting are the lacerations across the victim's back." Curiosity echoed through the crowd as they examined the marks, and Doc Robbins smiled, pleased with his abilities as host.

"Looks like a chain impression of some sort," Nick offered.

"Precisely," Doc Robbins agreed.

"And the condition and pigmentation of the skin combined with the sunken eye sockets suggest severe malnutrition and dehydration, likely as a result of starvation over an extended period," David piped up, looking to Doc Robbins for validation. "Though, not enough to kill him, but given one more week or so, it would have been."

"Very good David," Doc Robbins concurred, and David smiled proudly. "So we can rule out starvation as the COD, but its effect on the body would certainly have been a complicating factor in his death. Considering the very literal stick lodged in his anal cavity, most likely cause of death was internal bleeding as a result of ruptured organs combined with the damaged femoral artery. I thought it was pretty cut and dry myself, but _then_..." he paused for dramatic effect, "I examined the victim's _airway_."

The crowd erupted in hushed whispers and excited speculation. Someone in the corner choked back an eager giggle.

"And discovered...." He motioned at David, who then moved to a side table and retrieved a metal tray which he passed around for the audience to get a good look at, "A _mass_ of multi-coloured confetti lodged in his orifice!"

This drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. The person in the back, who he suspected to be one of the lab techs, could no longer hold back their maniacal giggles.

"Looks like we aren't the only party goers!" a voice speculated.

"Yeah, too bad I missed that..." another voice replied sarcastically at the bad joke.

Nick spoke up, "So you're saying that, _hypothetically_, Ecklie could have exsanguinated from his internal injuries, the bullet wound and the damaged artery... but he may have technically choked to death on a bunch of confetti during the process and therefore the _ultimate_ cause of death would be asphyxiation—since it would have taken slightly longer to bleed to death then to die of oxygen deprivation?"

A lab tech from Day Shift swooned a little at Nick's dazzling intellect and devastatingly handsome features.

"Exactly! Now the question is: was the confetti inserted _before_, or _after_, death?" Doc Robbins inquired suggestively.

"Oh, oh!" David interjected excitedly, "Check the trachea and the lungs! If he inhaled some of the confetti, or even any trace from it, then it had to have been stuffed into his mouth when he was still breathing."

Warric was skeptical. "Wait, are you sure there was enough confetti to asphyxiate him in the first place? The pieces look pretty small..."

"Most definitely." Doc Robbins confirmed. "The individual bits may be tiny, but the sheer quantity alone would easily block the airways. Combine that with saliva to clump it together and there's no turning back.

"Like David suggested, we will have to do an internal exam to be sure. At this point, it is purely speculation.

"Of course, we can't rule out exsanguination just yet. The damaged artery alone may have been enough to kill. In his state, the blood would have had trouble clotting."

Doc Robbins moved back to the other end of the table, and indicated the bullet wound once more, before moving upward to the anal cavity. "As you can see, the damage here is quite extensive. The stick," he nodded to David, who obediently held up the object in question, "is forty inches long, fourteen inches of which were fully immersed in the victim's body, at an angle that suggests it would have damaged the internal organs.

"The blood surrounding the wound also appears to suggest internal bleeding. It would have been extremely painful." The crowd cheered again. "Also, as you can see here and here," he indicated with the pencil, "we have splinters from the wood and signs of previous anal violation.

"The semen found at the scene and on the body also corroborates sexual violence." He turned to Nick, who was standing closest. "Stokes, can you give David a hand flipping the body? We're done with the external exam. Time for the coup dé gras everyone!" He rubbed his hands together in excitement, watching the crowd's reactions as the two men flipped the body onto its back.

The change in pose now revealed what had been previously hidden due to the body's position as well as general deficit in size.

The audience gasped. Some turned away in abject horror while others could not pry their eyes away out of morbid fascination.

"Is that...?" Sara began in a broken voice, but was too disturbed to continue.

"Oh my god, it is." Catherine confirmed.

Doc Robbins merely smiled.

"I...I am never going to get this image out of my head," Warric lamented in disgust, referring to the slightly faded dragon tattoo that curled itself around Ecklie's genitals with a gold stud piercing for its eye.

"Wow. I really never wanted to know that about my boss," a day-shifter confessed.

"Do you think it's related to his murder?" Nick asked.

"It looks like he's had it for a number of years." Doc Robbins stated, leaving the question open for the audience to ponder.

Nick cringed and he decided that the memory had probably been burned into everyone's mind enough for one night. David, reading his mind, put a (very) small cloth over the area, unable to look any longer.

Doc Robbins placed his pencil on the table, and with an enthusiastic grin exchanged it for his prized surgical saw, which he had secretly named Mary Jane, after his beloved mother. Some men had tattoos to acknowledge their love for their mother, others had saws. The sentiment was the same, really.

Hoisting Mary Jane in the air, he proclaimed, "Now that that's out of the way, let's cut him up and see what's inside!" Turning her on with practiced ease and great affection, he added, "Lucky for you fine folks, I saved the Y incision and internal exam for your viewing pleasure."

Everyone took a large step back from the table, attempting to avoid any spray, but Doc Robbins knew there was no hope for those in the front row.

Completing the Y incision quickly, he had the ribcage removed and the heart and lungs on the table before anyone could even wipe the evidence of his work off their stunned faces. Wasting no time, he grabbed his knife and prepared to test David's lung theory to settle the matter of COD once and for all.

The moment his knife slid in, a brief but unexpected _puff_ of confetti exploded from the opening, tiny pieces of it sticking to his glasses and drifting gently to the table top. "Yep, definitely peri-mortem. Looks like we have our official COD."

"Maybe he was at a party? He could have inhaled it by accident," Greg suggested.

Brass wasn't so sure. "Possibly, but the bullet wound, starvation and lacerations suggest prolonged and unspeakable torture. And that's not even mentioning the obvious anal violation. Unless he passed out into a bucket of confetti I doubt he could have inhaled that much by accident."

"Perhaps it was some sort of wild, kinky sex party? You know, with whips and chains and stuff?" Greg posited.

Catherine shifted uncomfortably.

Grissom frowned. "That seems a little intensely violent, even for BDSM. But it is worth checking into. Catherine, why don't you consult Lady Heather on the case, maybe she'll have some insight."

"Fine with me," she agreed. "Sara and I can drop by. But you don't honestly think this was consensual do you?"

"Who knows? It may have started out that way and gotten out of hand. I really didn't know Ecklie that well," Grissom confessed with a shrug.

"Valid theory," David Hodges contributed, seeming to contemplate the matter deeply. "Every control freak needs an outlet, maybe his was violent sex?"

"What's yours Hodges?" Mandy teased with a raised eyebrow, eliciting some giggles from the crowd and a blush from his cheeks.

"I refuse to dignify that with a response." Hodges quickly busied himself at the punch bowl.

"Either way, this is a homicide investigation," Brass insisted. "There's no way he could have done this to himself, and I can think of a lot of people who would have immensely enjoyed doing it to him," he noted, receiving several nods. "Actually, now that I think about it, I seem to remember reading about a similar batch of unsolved cases in Florida. Don't recall any confetti being involved, but it could be worth looking into."

"I'll call up the Miami PD, see what they know," Catherine volunteered with an air of nonchalance. In a lightly chastising tone she reminded him, "Let's not worry about that tonight." Raising her plastic cup of punch high in the air, she continued with a note of solidarity, "Tonight is a celebration of those we were lucky enough to lose, and those we were lucky enough not to!"

"Here, here!" everyone cheered amiably, clinking their plastic cups of punch together and spilling a few drops on the floor to mingle with bits of confetti and bits of Ecklie.

Catherine put a hand on Brass' shoulder and added sincerely, "It's good to have you back Captain."

* * *


	22. Wild Tentacle Sex in the Morgue Bathroom

**Title:** Oh Captain, My Captain

**Author:** Kitty

**Warnings:** Language, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Grissass Est. relationship, Adult Content, X-Over, Violence/Gore, Slash, Femmeslash, Het, Bi, BDSM, UST, Nec, Tent, AU, Doc Robbins/Warric/Greg/Nick/David, Sara/Catherine, S/C/LH, Crack!Fic, GSR, LH/Horatio, Incest (Brass/Ellie), Time Travel, Blood Play, MPreg, fucked up time frame, toys, casefic, science, Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation, crack whores, dom, mouth tent, erections, solo, exhibition, public, more-somes, YoBling, Necromancy, voodoo, vampires, werewolves, midgets, x-files, Harry Potter, masochism, sadism, Japanese Lolitas, Beast, clones, psychic powers, mutants, sewers, cross-dressing, deer-crossing, phone sex, Supernatural, Warass, Daddy issues, CSI: NY, CSI: Miami, Xena, zombie apocalypse, OOC, AU, Lemon, Warnick, Ryan/Calleigh/Eric, Non-Con, DubCon, Voyeurism, Broken 4th wall, house x-over, spanking, bondage, partner swapping, gender swapping...

"Our killers, it seems, have relocated." Horatio said, quietly observing the reactions of his team. "The LVPD has asked for our files."

"The Harry Potter murders?" Ryan asked, looking up from his laptop.

"Yes."

"So, you sending all the information over then?" Calleigh asked, shifting her attention to Horatio.

"I thought," Horatio said, "that in the spirit of interstate law enforcement cooperation, we should bring the information to them." He gazed at his crack team of CSIs. "Personally."

"The entire team?" Natalie had wandered in from the outside, lured by the scent of a paid vacation.

"No, not you," Horatio dismissed her, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket.

"Me?" Calleigh asked, giving her best southern gal impression.

"Yes," Horatio fidgeted with the glasses, wishing he was outside. "You, Mr. Wolfe, Eric, and I."

"Don't we have other cases that need to be worked on?" Eric winced in pain as Ryan kicked him in the leg and Calleigh shot off a vicious glare in his direction.

_Fuck it, _Horatio decided, and slid on the sunglasses. "That, Eric, is why we have a night shift."

"Will we meet Dr. Grissom?" Ryan looked far too hopeful.

"I do believe it was his team that found the first body." Horatio braced himself.

"Really?" Calleigh's voice was one step below shriek. "I mean, I've heard he is very good at his job," she tried to cover up, eyes flickering to the side.

"I heard he was kidnapped and forced to escape _and_ solve a murder with nothing but a tube of superglue, a pair of scissors, three test tubes, and a baby monitor!" Eric exclaimed.

"I heard that he caught the Strip Side Robbers with nothing but a geometric equation," Ryan contributed, eyes sparkling. "_And _it held up in court!"

"I heard that if you ask real nice, he'll autograph your underwear!" Calleigh flushed bright red as the boys turned to look at her. "I had this roommate… back in college…"

Horatio cleared his throat and pulled his sunglasses off in one smooth motion. "I met him, once." He ignored the looks of awe directed his way as he left the clear glass lab.

"Hey, Sara," a groupie from dayshift called, waving a hand in a distinctive 'come hither' gesture. "I made bacon wrapped cheese puffs! Wanna try one?" the groupie asked, gazing adoringly upon the svelte figure of the nightshift CSI.

"No thank you, I'm a vegetarian," Sara demurred quickly, walking past her.

The groupie grabbed Sara's arm and laughed in a painfully false manner. "No, seriously," she giggled, "Try one! It's just bacon!"

"Which is dead pig, which I do not eat," Sara parried deftly, easing her way out of the groupie's painfully tight grip.

"Hey," the groupie exclaimed, her rampant adoration fading enough to allow one of her few brain cells to feel indignation. "I worked hard on these! Where do you get off on insulting my cooking?"

"I am not insulting your cooking, I am indicating a food preference. AKA, I prefer not to eat animals."

"Prefer means that you _could _eat it, you just don't want to. It's not like you're allergic or anything!" the harpy said, her dull eyes lighting up in fury. "You're just insulting me!"

"As difficult as this might be for you," Sara spoke slowly and softly, as if to a 'tard who had just shat himself, "You need to realize that this is not about you. This is about the fact that I do not wish to eat your cooking. You are not your cooking, or I doubt you'd be offering it to me so willingly."

The groupie's eyes glazed over with tears and stupidity. "You think I'm a bad cook?" she asked, snuffling softly.

"I don't know," Sara said patiently, knowing that some people needed to have concepts explained in little words, "I've never eaten your cooking, and I never will unless you make a vegetarian dish for the next autopsy potluck."

"What if I were to hide the meat, and just not tell you it was in there?" the groupie asked, eyes alight with a cunning idea made of shitty execution.

"Well, since you just asked me that," Sara's eye twitched violently, "I can assure you that I will never eat your cooking now."

"But why won't you eat meat?" she wailed, frustrated at beating on the iron wall of someone else's convictions. "It's what animals are _for_!"

Sara gazed at the other woman, and chose to not bother beating a dead horse. "It's sort of like seeing a field full of roasting babies skewered on spits." She paused for a moment to savour the look of disgust on the harpy's face. "I may approve of the sentiment, but that doesn't mean I want to eat it." She walked away from the retching woman and wondered how anyone with such a weak stomach could have become a CSI. Or perhaps she simply had food poisoning from the half raw animal flesh she'd been consuming.

_Either way, _Sara decided, _I really should get a pamphlet or something. People just can't seem to get the "I like animals, just not when they've been sliced, diced, and burnt to a crisp," thing. It's like there's a cognitive disconnect— _Sara's thoughts screeched into a sudden u-turn. _Catherine's wearing thigh-highs! _

The harpy glared with fury of a thousand suns, eyes glinting with madness. Sara didn't notice. Catherine was wearing a garter belt!

"Donut? Nick offered. They were leaned up against the wall, watching the party and occasionally returning to the autopsy table currently doubling as a refreshments stand.

Warric shook his head, scratching at his throat. It itched on the inside. He must be coming down with something. "Nah, I've got crackers. And noodle stuff." He gave the noodles a doubtful look. A cocktail napkin wasn't a good plate substitute. But he was a sucker for casseroles. And as ungraceful as shoving a napkin into your face for direct hand to mouth feeding was, triple cheese broccoli penne was worth it.

"Mmm," Nick hummed, sucking a smidgen of icing from his finger. "So where were you this afternoon? You weren't picking up your phone."

"I'm… not sure," Warric said. He frowned at the noodles again. _Where was I? _ He had the strangest feeling that it was important. But the afternoon was nothing but an empty void… as was the morning. "I think I was at home." He said uncertainly, despite the sense that no, he hadn't been home. It was the first thing he remembered after leaving work, waking up in a strange sheet that sent clouds of dust up every time he moved. "Must have done some pre-party partying," he joked, allowing his mind to shy away from the black hole of his memory. He popped a teensy weensy cocktail wienie in his mouth.

Nick twitched, eyes wide. "Hey, you got something in your mouth…" he pointed out awkwardly.

"Yeah, it's a cocktail wiener," Warric said, eyeing Nick in bemusement.

"No, not that—"Nick dropped his donut (chocolate sprinkles, a true loss to the world) "Shit, it's moving!" he hissed.

"What?"

"You can't feel that?" Nick watched in appalled horror.

Warric shifted to face the other man, "Feel what?"

"That!" Nick did not elaborate in a helpful fashion.

"Seriously, what are you talking about?"

Nick paled dramatically and grabbed Warric by the arm then turned to drag him to the bathrooms. "This is so wrong," he groaned softly to himself.

Unfortunately, not softly enough in the closely packed morgue which had coincidentally experienced one of those moments of silence that happen just as you're about to say something completely appalling that will ruin your rep for years.

Mary in accounting frowned softly, her deep brown eyes concerned. "Are you dragging Brown into the bathroom?" she asked, her enormous doe eyes budding tears as one of her dearest fantasies showed signs of finally coming true. She pressed a hand to her chest to quell her fluttering heart.

"Two in one day Warric?" Greg jeered, suddenly jealous. Not that he knew why. The sex hadn't exactly been life affirming.

"Wha—?" Warric began to say, completely confused by Greg's comment. _What the hell did I do today?_

"Keep your mouth shut!" Nick half-shouted, panicking.

"Oh tell him who's the boss Nicky!" hooted Sue from payroll. "Give him a smack on the ass!" She pantomimed lewdly and then sucked down another glass of punch.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of camera phones recording the scene. Nick tried to discretely pull Warric toward the washrooms. His attempt was very well noted on the Blackberries, but the I-Phones were stymied by the faint shimmer that seemed to surround Warric. Doubtless a flaw in the hardware.

"You need someone to hold your hand in the bathroom Nicky?" Greg said spitefully, glaring over the lip of his punch glass (spiked with corpse juice 3.2 for flavour).

"BOOYEAH! Catfight!" shouted the homeless guy in the corner. He grabbed his crotch and made a pitiful attempt at a Michael Jackson impression. "I know what's fuelling my knob polish tonight!" he slurred.

Greg twitched violently and wished he'd never given the man $50 to dress up like a clown for the party. Though super gluing the hair on had been fun; he would have paid him $20 just for that.

"There's nothing to see here folks," Nick tried to brush off the overwhelming interest in their actions. "Warric just had a little too much to drink," he kicked Warric to make him stagger, "and he needs to go puke it up now."

Grissom eased his way through the completely unconvinced crowd and pulled out his wallet. "I can trust you both to act responsibly, I hope," he said, gazing at them sternly. "Just in case," he said, pulling out a condom and handing it to Nick. He hesitated then pulled out a second condom. "You just never know," he explained as he handed it to Warric.

"Why are there ants?" asked Nick, holding the condom delicately between two fingers. The transparent package showed the glow in the dark insects marching up in circles. His voice indicated a deep-seated distress.

"Ribbing for your pleasure," Grissom answered, walking back to Brass.

"Well, fuck," Nick sighed. He looked up at the crowd, who were leaning over each other's shoulders for a better view. Doc Robbins gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. He and Warric shared a defeated glance. Nick replaced his grip on Warric and dragged him into the bathroom amidst the joyful cheers and leers of the lab.

"Ruining your subordinates' love lives, one condom at a time," Brass chided, raising an eyebrow at Grissom.

"_Love glove_," Grissom corrected automatically. "And I prefer to think of it as giving fate a helping hand." He glanced meaningfully into his lovers deep blue eyes, grasping his hand tenderly in his own. "You know how I feel about fate."

"So what was so important that you had to cause that scene?" Warric asked Nick, irked and slightly embarrassed.

"Look in the mirror and say that!" Nick retorted, his eyes much too wide. He kicked the rubber doorstopper out from under the door and locked the deadbolt. On the other side someone screamed something about giving them a show, but Nick felt that that was hardly important right now.

"Seriously, wha—" Warric stopped and stared in terror, "Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, what the fuck is that?" A thin tendril squirmed out of his opened lips and waved gently through the air like seaweed in water. Warric opened his mouth to speak again and four more writhed their way to freedom, tracing patterns like they were hunting for something.

"You can't feel them?" Nick took deep breaths, trying not to freak out. If anyone was going to have a girly panic attack in this bathroom, it was going to be Warric.

Warric tugged gently on one of the tentacles and pulled back in sudden fear when it curled affectionately around his finger. "I feel them." He met Nick's eyes in the mirror. "I think…" he paused, and swallowed, lips closing around tentacles that independently slithered back into his mouth. He shuddered violently before continuing. "I think they're a part of me," he whispered uncertainly, eyes dark with fear and terror. "I can _feel _them, Nick," he said, tentacles lazily enjoying their freedom in the open air. He could feel the fan's breeze on them and an uncomfortable tightness in their outer membrane from the exposure to the dry elements.

"Can't you just, I don't know, pull them out?" Nick asked, repulsed by the sight. Another tentacle slipped out. "Fuck, can you control them at all?" He twitched and swallowed convulsively, trying to defeat the nausea that the sight of pallid tentacles leaking from his friend's mouth evoked.

Warric gingerly tried to tug the tentacles out. They coiled loosely around his fingers, exploring his skin, one finger at a time. He pulled and choked on the sensation. "Don't think so," he whispered after he'd released the tentacles. They traced the edges of his mouth gently. "They're attached to something." He met his own eyes in the mirror. They looked far more stunned than three beers and a cooler warranted.

Nick edged closer, considering laying a comforting hand on Warric, but then realized that Warric was a man and therefore the rules of no touching between buddies applied. "Maybe it's your tonsils?" he asked, pretending that tonsils growing tentacles was a normal part of aging, like wisdom teeth and liver spots.

"Do you think?" Warric asked, turning desperate eyes on Nick.

"Uh… No, not really," Nick admitted awkwardly. "I mean, seriously, I've never heard of any kind of spontaneous tentacle growth." He paused, "Outside of Japan, that is."

"People grow tentacles in Japan?" Warric asked, dubious, but willing to accept that the Japanese could have done that.

"Not outside of porn," Nick said.

Warric leaned away discretely. "Okay," he agreed, not knowing what he was agreeing to. "What the hell am I going to do?"

"Star in Japanese porn?" Nick joked with a boyish grin and then blushed at the images. "Can I touch them?"

Warric backed up to the wall. He fixed Nick with a questioning glance. "Why?" The tentacles seemed to feel his agitation and responded by lashing out, slapping wetly against his chin. "Fuck!" Warric exclaimed in surprise. He drew a finger along the edge of his jaw and found blood.

"They have edges?" Nick asked, wilting slightly. He stepped deep into Warric's personal space and slid his hand under Warric's chin to get a better look. "—like really sharp edges, or just kind of rough edges?" he questioned, attempting to look interested in a purely scientific manner.

Briefly fooled, Warric relaxed enough to answer, "I'm not sure. Felt like sandpaper though."

The tentacles took advantage of Warric's open mouth to slip out and curl around Nick's hand. Nick shivered and his hand twitched back only to be held in place by suddenly unyielding binds of the tentacles. A pair of thicker tentacles lunged out and grasped Nick tightly by the wrist.

Nick gasped in pain and tried to yank back, the thicker tentacles biting into his skin. His movement jerked Warric forward, making him gag violently and fall to his knees.

"Fuck, sorry man!" Nick said, twisting to hold his bound wrist in front of Warric's face in an effort to keep him from puking.

Warric glared up at Nick, his vision blurred by involuntary tears from the force of the pull. He tried to talk, but the tentacles acted as a gag.

Nick shuddered as one of the tentacles caressed his wrist. His eyesight hazed over and then cleared, the world left somehow brighter from the experience. His best friend was on his knees in front of him, lips loosely wrapped around a thickly corded rope of tentacles. They were slowly ripening from pale white to brightly flashing red, patterns rushing down their length in a mesmerizing dance.

"Can you make them let go?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. He brought his other hand in to touch the long tentacles that had grasped his wrist. They twitched at his touch, pattern gaining a trace of orange before darkening to an even darker shade of crimson laced with black stripes. One uncoiled enough to capture the other wrist.

Nick shuffled closer, his knees brushing against Warric's shoulders. The long tentacles both uncoiled slightly. They explored up Nick's arms before reaching the limits of their length and dropping down to find his belt loops, a feature they were quite taken with. The cluster of smaller tentacles began kneading Nick's hands, the friction inducing the production of an oily layer on the surface of their skin.

Warric glared at his tentacles, trying to command them to stop molesting his friend. They did not obey.

In the mean time, the twin tentacles moved on to Nick's zipper. Warric flushed in embarrassment, and looked up at Nick to try and communicate that it _wasn't him _that was doing this. His embarrassment turned to anger in a moment when he saw that Nick's eyes were closed and his breath was coming just a trifle too fast.

He dropped his eyes to make certain (because despite having a fantastic view of Nick's crotch, he'd been trying to avoid looking) and grimaced at the sudden close up of his best friend's raging hard on.

Warric threw himself forward against Nick's knees, angrily tackling him.

Nick stumbled and fell, eyes suddenly wide open. "What the fuck, Warric?" he yelped, eyes crossing slightly as he hit the ground. Warric was forced to follow the tentacles and wound up sprawled across Nick's legs, face buried in his groin. Warric struggled up to glare at Nick.

Outside, they could hear the crowd cheering. Warric harboured the faint hope that Catherine had broken out her old Naughty Miss America routine, but his hope was broken like a cheap vase in a seventies porno when he heard Doc Robbins call out, "Give him what for, Warric!" in a cheesy English accent.

Nick flushed when he realized why Warric was glaring. "Look, it's no big deal," he whispered roughly, wiggling uncomfortably in a way that did nothing to help his case. "It's just an involuntary physical response," he blinked innocently, something that he did very well.

Unfortunately, Warric was unconvinced that an erection should ever be the appropriate involuntary physical response to tentacles. He was prepared to growl at the other man, the only way he could express his displeasure, when a thin tentacle whipped back into his mouth and slid rapidly along the inner lining of his lips. He twitched violently as colours swam across his vision. Then just as quickly the colours stopped. He shuddered in sudden relaxation and melted into Nick's lap.

"Oh, that's better," Nick commented breathlessly, reaching down to give the tentacles a helping hand with his jeans.

Warric took the opportunity to lift himself up one-handed and pull Nick's pants down to his knees. Then he lost his balance and toppled over onto Nick. It was okay though, because the pants were gone.

Nick's eyes rolled up as his vision was overlaid in stars. It was like every guilty late night fantasy he'd ever had, but with unnaturally prehensile appendages coming out of his best friend's mouth. His hands were finally freed when the two longest tentacles wandered off in search of new pastures. Nick took the opportunity to bury his hands in Warric's hair. _Oooooo… fluffy, _he thought absently, and then twitched.

His wrists really stung for some reason. Distracted from the vortex of tentacles feasting upon his throbbing love rocket, he glanced downwards. Encircling his wrists were bloody rings of abraded flesh where the tentacles had been.

Suddenly alarmed, he pushed up on his elbows to see where the tentacles had gone. The thin trickle of fear turned into a river of terror and mortification as he wondered just how he would explain this to the emergency room doctor. The tentacles had separated, one coiling around his gonads, the other reaching down out of sight, where he could feel it writhing between his thighs.

Nick shifted his weight onto one elbow and pulled on Warric's hair. "Warric, come on, don't do that!" His voice wavered at a volume just a trifle too loud, he discovered, as a chant of, "Do it Warric, Do it!" rose from outside the door.

Warric's head pulled up, but the tentacles didn't. He looked at Nick as if to say, _what, do you think there are brakes on this thing?_ as his tentacles continued to fellate Nick's somewhat wilted pride and joy.

Nick's other elbow gave out and he collapsed onto his back as the testicle tentacle coiled roughly, drawing blood from tender skin. He shook for a second, body overcome with sensation far more pleasant than he'd anticipated.

When Warric pushed his legs ever so slightly further apart, he did not resist. And when the second tentacle thrust deep inside of him, Nick's back arced up, pushing him deeper into Warric's mouth.

He grasped helplessly at Warric's shoulders, plucking at his shirt. Tremors rocked his body as the squirming forest of tentacles conducted an orchestra of pleasure and pain using his body as their sole instrument.

Sweat beaded on his brow, flushed a brilliant red. He came hard, blacking out momentarily as a tentacle, lubricated by its strangely slick skin, slid inextricably down his urethra.


End file.
